Poem Hunter
JK (1784-1856 / Jamaica)


From East and West, and North and South,
What shoals are here! they go—they come—
Yet, take whatever road they will,
Not one but leads them to the tomb.
They stop—step in—just scrawl their names—
Then off they hurry, out of breath;
Yet not a hand is busy here,
But writes a register for death.

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