Our door was shut to the noon-day heat. We could not see him. We might not have heard him either— Resting, dozing, dreaming pleasantly. But his step was tremendous— Are mountains on the march? He was no man who passed; But a great faithful horse Dragging a load Up the hill.
To W.C.W. M.D.
There has been Another death. This time I bring it to you. You are kind, Brutal, You know How to lower Bodies. I ask only That the rope Isn't silk, (Silk doesn't break) Nor thread, (Thread does.) If it lifts And lowers Common things, It will do.