Classic Poem

who's most afraid of death? thou
art of him
utterly afraid, i love of thee
(beloved) this


and truly i would be
near when his scythe takes crisply the whim
of thy smoothness. and mark the fainting
murdered petals. with the caving stem.

But of all most would i be one of them

round the hurt heart which do so frailly cling....)
i who am but imperfect in my fear

Or with thy mind against my mind, to hear
nearing our hearts' irrevocable play —
through the mysterious high futile day

an enormous stride
(and drawing thy mouth toward)

my mouth, steer our lost bodies carefully downward)