Classic Poem

Up with her, do, out of her bed,
Let her not rest, though she is dead.
Dig and pick at her, spade and shovel,
Till you have reached her coffin-hovel:
Then with prying and probe and test
Hold your foul, long-faced inquest.

See if she died of a hole in her skull
Or of a brain flushed overfull
Of fetid days; till she was weary
Of bearing breath grown mortal dreary.
See if her murderer was Life —
Or her own hand, sick of the strife.

Of her own hand, I say; or, fools!
Mine, if it be your itch so rules.
See if indeed a blow did shatter
Her world — where nothing more could matter.
For there is naught you need regret,
You, with your live women, yet.