I Don't Ask Myself, Is

And Death Fell With Me, Like A Deepening Moan. And He, Picking A Manner Of Worm, Which Half Had Hid Its Bruises In The Earth, But Crawled No Further, Showed Me Its Feet, The Feet Of Many Men, And The Fresh-severed Head Of It, My Head.

My Soul's A Little Grief, Grappling Your Chest, To Climb Your Throat On Sobs; Easily Chased On Other Sighs And Wiped By Fresher Winds.

Dead Men May Envy Living Mites In Cheese, Or Good Germs Even. Microbes Have Their Joys, And Subdivide, And Never Come To Death.

The Pallor Of Girls' Brows Shall Be Their Pall; Their Flowers The Tenderness Of Patient Minds, And Each Slow Dusk A Drawing-down Of Blinds.

Heart, You Were Never Hot Nor Large, Nor Full Like Hearts Made Great With Shot