Classic Poem

Death is dark sleep and death is very still,
Yet in this sleeping face, shadowed, too lean,
There lives a little smile aloof and chill,
A little mocking smile that lurks between
The even lips firm-sealed, final as stone,
And the nostril's subtle lift; the eyes are stern,
And in their hollows dark all pain is shown;
Yet the face smiles in gentle unconcern.
Something he knew too surely as he came
To the narrow door, with youth upon his head,
Something he saw, as by a livid flame,
Paltry, amusing, commonplace instead
Of what he'd thought; and so he closed his eyes.
The dead should not be cynical and wise.