The Wife

When death was sharpening his scythe, 
I had whispered to my wife, 
"Go fetch some water from the well;
a sweet, cool drink, and I'll feel swell."
She did as bid and so I rid
myself of my own soul.
But I knew why I had to die.
All out of my control.
He could not kill me with her gone, 
though he tried from dusk to dawn.
Without her I was not alive.
Vainly did old grim-bones strive.