Thomas Wade (1805–1875)

BOLD mortal! thou dost ape the skeleton

That satirizes man and all his doings

From every opened grave; and shouldst seem one,

But for the glow-worm which is in thine eyes,

And certain airs that from thy lips arise:

Why, now to see thee at thine amorous cooings,

Or gravely preaching immortality,

To which thy living death’s-head gives the lie,

Would make the shadow that all life receiveth

Shake his dim sides with horrible derision.

Tell us, old Calvus! what about thee cleaveth,

To make distinction still between the vision

Of a death’s-head and thine? Get thee false hair,

For thy sole privilege to upper air.