Death of a Gentleman ( Aged 0ne hundred and One )

How softly he breathes his transparent dream,
Clasping sad sighs to his ice-cold breast,
While, impishly bright, the shades of the night
Tease, but cannot disturb his wintry plight.

The silvery moonlight peers through the lace net
To enlighten that cold pallid face,
Which, with little regret, reveals the secret
That the life that was his, he can no longer embrace.

As the late Autumn grass stoops low and then dies,
Brittle dry leaves rustle towards their demise,
The still airborne moon dissolves in the dawn,
To be replaced by the temperate fire of morn.

After night's death a bright new day is born,
Early breezes ripple the lace, gentle and warm,
While in that sad chamber nothing will stir,
The Tragedy of life; of death; the mysterious transfer.