Death seldom comes with easy grace,
Grasping at the seams of well-worn life.
An end to a beginning is not out-of-place,
And all things, eventually, must fade from sight.
So, poor poet, take pity on your father,
Who, having lived long, now waits to start,
A journey he cannot undertake with another.
Weep quietly, poor poet, and play your part.
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