Poetry Archives

426

It don’t sound so terrible—quite—as it did—
I run it over—”Dead”, Brain, “Dead.”
Put it in Latin—left of my school—
Seems it don’t shriek so—under rule.

Turn it, a little—full in the face
A Trouble looks bitterest—
Shift it—just—
Say “When Tomorrow comes this way—
I shall have waded down one Day.”

I suppose it will interrupt me some
Till I get accustomed—but then the Tomb
Like other new Things—shows largest—then—
And smaller, by Habit—

It’s shrewder then
Put the Thought in advance—a Year—
How like “a fit”—then—
Murder—wear!