What care the Dead, for Chanticleer-
What care the Dead for Day?
'Tis late your Sunrise vex their face-
And Purple Ribaldry-of Morning

Pour as blank on them
As on the Tier of Wall
The Mason builded, yesterday,
And equally as cool-

What care the Dead for Summer?
The Solstice had no Sun
Could waste the Snow before their Gate-
And knew One Bird a Tune-

Could thrill their Mortised Ear
Of all the Birds that be-
This One-beloved of Mankind
Henceforward cherished be-

What care the Dead for Winter?
Themselves as easy freeze-
June Noon-as January Night-
As soon the South-her Breeze

Of Sycamore-or Cinnamon-
Deposit in a Stone
And put a Stone to keep it Warm-
Give Spices-unto Men-