DEATH bids his heralds go their way
On red-rimmed bicycles to-day.
Arrayed in blue, with streak of red,
A boy bears tidings of the dead:
He pedals merrily along,
Whistling the chorus of a song;
Passing the time of day with friends,
Until the journey almost ends.
Then slowing down, he scans each gate
For the doomed name upon the plate.
That done, he loudly knocks and rings,
Hands in the yellow missive; sings
His song. The maid says at the door
" No answer," and he's off once more.
Edward Shillito.
