Death a Week Old

Men perished thick as snow before you died
And their deaths moved me not—yours strikes me dumb
And sightless from much sorrow; days will come
Drifting like leaves—each season's pomp and pride
Sweep over me! Yet I may not abide
This skeleton that marches with a drum
Leading the rosy children of the world
Into the crowding coffin to lie curled.
They say a million million have paced slow,
Against their wills, into a hole below.…
Yet death is still to me a monstrous lie
That God in some great madness caused to grow
Pulling this great blue universe awry.
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