Epitaph

THE first time I died, I walked my ways;

     I followed the file of limping days.

I held me tall, with my head flung up,

But I dared not look on the new moon’s cup.

I dared not look on the sweet young rain,

And between my ribs was a gleaming pain.

The next time I died, they laid me deep.

They spoke worn words to hallow my sleep.

They tossed me petals, they wreathed me fern,

They weighted me down with a marble urn.

And I lie here warm, and I lie here dry,

And watch the worms slip by, slip by.