Epitaphs

I HAVE wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth, And laid them away in a box of gold; Where long will cling the lips of the moth, I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth; I hide no hate; I am not even wroth Who found earth’s breath so keen and cold; I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth, And laid them away in a box of gold.

THIS lovely flower fell to seed; Work gently, sun and rain; She held it as her dying creed That she would grow again.

BIRTH is a crime All men commit; Life gives them time To atone for it; Death ends the rhyme As the price for it.

DEATH clogged this flute At its highest note; Song sleeps here mute In this breathless throat.

FOR forty years I shunned the lust Inherent in my clay; Death only was so amorous I let him have his way.

SHE even thinks that up in heaven Her class lies late and snores, While poor black cherubs rise at seven To do celestial chores.

A CREATURE slender as a reed, And sad-eyed as a doe Lies here (but take my word for it, And do not pry below).

MOUNTAINS cover me like rain, Billows whirl and rise; Hide me from the stabbing pain In His reproachful eyes.

SHOWING that our ways agreed, Death is proof enough; Body seeks the primal clay, Soul transcends the slough.

WHAT matters that I stormed and swore? Not Samson with an ass’s jaw, Not though a forest of hair he wore, Could break death’s adamantine law.

I WHOSE magic could explore Ways others might not guess or see, Now am barred behind a door That has no “Open Sesame.”

HE wore his coffin for a hat, Calamity his cape, While on his face a death’s-head sat And waved a bit of crape.

GOD and the devil still are wrangling Which should have her, which repel; God wants no discord in his heaven; Satan has enough in hell.

HERE lies one who tried to solve The riddle of being and breath: The wee blind mole that gnaws his bones Tells him the answer is death.

I BOASTED my sins were sure to sink me Out of all sound and sight of glory; And the most I’ve won for all my pains Is a century of purgatory.

ON earth the wise man makes the rules, And is the fool’s adviser, But here the wise are as the fools, (And no man is the wiser).

MY days were a thing for me to live, For others to deplore; I took of life all it could give: Rind, inner fruit, and core.

BLOOD-BROTHER unto Thomas whose Weak faith doubt kept in trammels, His little credence strained at gnats— But grew robust on camels.

LIFE ushers some as heirs-elect To weather wind and gale; Here lies a man whose ships were wrecked Ere he could hoist a sail.

OURS is the ancient story: Delicate flowers of sin, Lilies, arrayed in glory, That would not toil nor spin.

TO men no more than so much cover For them to doff or try, I found in Death a constant lover: Here in his arms I lie.

VANITY of vanities, All is vanity; yea, Even the rod He flayed you with Crumbled and turned to clay.

HE whose might you sang so well Living, will not let you rust: Death has set the golden bell Pealing in the courts of dust.

NOT writ in water, nor in mist, Sweet lyric throat, thy name; Thy singing lips that cold death kissed Have seared his own with flame.

SOUL-TROUBLED at the febrile ways of breath, Her timid breast shot through with faint alarm, “Yes, I’m a stranger here,” she said to Death, “It’s kind of you to let me take your arm.”

BORN of the sorrowful of heart, Mirth was a crown upon his head; Pride kept his twisted lips apart In jest, to hide a heart that bled.

NOT of the dust, but of the wave His final couch should be; They lie not easy in a grave Who once have known the sea. How shall earth’s meagre bed enthrall The hardiest seaman of them all?

WHAT’S in this grave is worth your tear; There’s more than the eye can see; Folly and Pride and Love lie here Buried alive with me.

PRIEST and layman, virgin, strumpet, Good and ill commingled sleep, Waiting till the dreadful trumpet Separates the wolves and sheep.