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 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.