dead

It can’t be “Summer”!
That — got through!
It’s early — yet — for “Spring”!
There’s that long town of White — to cross –
Before the Blackbirds sing!
It can’t be “Dying”!
It’s too Rouge –
The Dead shall go in White –
So Sunset shuts my question down
With Cuffs of Chrysolite!

We — Bee and I — live by the quaffing –
‘Tisn’t all Hock — with us –
Life has its Ale –
But it’s many a lay of the Dim Burgundy –
We chant — for cheer — when the Wines — fail –

Do we “get drunk”?
Ask the jolly Clovers!
Do we “beat” our “Wife”?
I — never wed –
Bee — pledges his — in minute flagons –
Dainty — as the trees — on our deft Head –

While runs the Rhine –
He and I — revel –
First — at the vat — and latest at the Vine –
Noon — our last Cup –
“Found dead” — “of Nectar” –
By a humming Coroner –
In a By-Thyme!

It can’t be “Summer”!
That — got through!
It’s early — yet — for “Spring”!
There’s that long town of White — to cross –
Before the Blackbirds sing!
It can’t be “Dying”!
It’s too Rouge –
The Dead shall go in White –
So Sunset shuts my question down
With Cuffs of Chrysolite!

This heart that broke so long –
These feet that never flagged –
This faith that watched for star in vain,
Give gently to the dead –

Hound cannot overtake the Hare
That fluttered panting, here –
Nor any schoolboy rob the nest
Tenderness builded there.

If I may have it when it’s dead
I will contented be;
If just as soon as breath is out
It shall belong to me,

Until they lock it in the grave,
‘T is bliss I cannot weigh,
For though they lock thee in the grave,
Myself can hold the key.

Think of it, lover! I and thee
Permitted face to face to be;
After a life, a death we’ll say, –
For death was that, and this is thee.

There’s something quieter than sleep
Within this inner room!
It wears a sprig upon its breast,
And will not tell its name.

Some touch it and some kiss it,
Some chafe its idle hand;
It has a simple gravity
I do not understand!

While simple-hearted neighbors
Chat of the ‘early dead,’
We, prone to periphrasis,
Remark that birds have fled!

Superfluous were the sun
When excellence is dead;
He were superfluous every day,
For every day is said

That syllable whose faith
Just saves it from despair,
And whose ‘I’ll meet you’ hesitates
If love inquire, ‘Where?’

Upon his dateless fame
Our periods may lie,
As stars that drop anonymous
From an abundant sky.

I wish I knew that woman’s name,
So, when she comes this way,
To hold my life, and hold my ears,
For fear I hear her say

She’s ’sorry I am dead,’ again,
Just when the grave and I
Have sobbed ourselves almost to sleep, –
Our only lullaby.