The Worst Of Slaves Is He Whom

Proud, Then, Clear-eyed And Laughing, Go To Greet Death As A Friend!

They Say That The Dead Die Not, But Remain Near To The Rich Heirs Of Their Grief And Mirth. I Think They Ride The Calm Mid-heaven, As These, In Wise Majestic Melancholy Train, And Watch The Moon, And The Still-raging Seas, And Men, Coming And Going On The Earth.

I Thought When Love For You Died, I Should Die. It's Dead. Alone, Most Strangely, I Live On.

The Cool Kindliness Of Sheets, That Soon Smooth Away Trouble; And The Rough Male Kiss Of Blankets.

Oh! Death Will Find Me Long Before I Tire Of Watching You.