With what narrow words
Death bolts the door:
Farewell, O lovely birds!
O boisterous earth, no more
Shall I observe the sun
Stretch out on your meadows
In the wind long shadows
Like strength! That is done.

When blood like a shout
Shook the forest of my veins
I cried, “You gadabout,
A pox on all your pains!”
I did not know how soon,
Quite, quite deforested,
They would shovel in the lead
And shut off the moon.

And the clouds like clubs
Hammer on the hills;
And the wild twilight sobs
With whippoorwills;
Night is a black hound
At a silver chain
Tugging: rain
Rattles on the ground.

No more shall I hunt
For the gold-eyed otter;
Never grow gaunt
Again for water;
Never, O never
At the green lakes hear
The toe of the deer,
The tail of the beaver.

Farewell, all bright
Flags and the small
Flowers and the white
Waterfall!
Farewell, all brave
Laughter, all speech—
And the cry under each
Like a wave!

What have I to do
Now with the lips
Of love and the blue
Eyes, the strong hips
Of the girls who go
Erect, confident,
The sweet way I went,
The places I know?

They want nothing of me;
They keep the hot tryst;
Gnarled is the tree
Like an old man's fist;
But they cut in its bark
Their beautiful, brief
Passion: the leaf
Drops in the dark.

I can limber my bones;
I can loosen them up;
I Have plenty of stones;
I can drink, I can sup
From the stones in the pot,
From the brew of death;
I can hold in my breath;
I can rot.

I can see how it goes
In the kitchen of this cook;
I can cool my toes;
I can sleep; I can look
Whichever way I please;
I can do what I like;
I can laugh at the spike
That nails down my knees.

I can listen apart
To the terrible downward beat
Of the blood from His heart
And the blood from His feet;
I can understand
Why they diced
For the shirt of Christ—
I can touch His hand.

The ant that heaves
Mollecular clod
Till he retrieves
His frail facade,
Is of my house,
Is in my breast:
I banquet the guest,
I flatter the mouse.

If the sow's pink litter
Pull at the sow
Their bite is not bitter
To her somehow;
No less with me
Who suck from stone
The brightness of bone,
The bleak melody.

This is my answer
To all who ask—
To Life the Dancer
From Death the Mask:
Though your garlands be plaited,
Though you mince to the flute,
Still the flame eats the fruit
And the calf is fatted.