No, V — , you never will persuade me
That Death is other than a friend;
I can't believe the hand that made me
Shall so unmake me in the end.

Suppose a Holy Ghost or Spirit
Came dressed in red instead of white;
A child may see some such, and fear it
On Christmas Eve or Christmas night.

It's not a Dustman or a Reaper;
It's not a wormy skeleton;
Perhaps the dark disguise is deeper
But It's the Father or the Son.

You will not look, because you dassn't,
At what is hidden in His bag;
I know it is another Present;
Eagle's wing or skin of stag.

They call it Future, but it isn't;
It is the Present when it come;
And shall the swinging fruit be wizened?
And shall the singing bird be dumb?

You know, upon our birthday mornings,
They gave us pretty hair and eyes;
Why should our lives' entire earnings
Be less than excrement of flies?

It's not because I've had so little;
It is because I've had so much
That I believe that clay and spittle
Contain the soul of Such and Such

The secret — and He has not told it —
Is that which here escapes us most;
And, even though we try to hold it,
It shall not finally be lost.

Although they burn me on a faggot
I turn me to my Father's house;
I will not have Him called a Maggot;
I will not have Him called a Louse.

I will not have Him called a Nothing;
I'll love Him, and I'll lay me down,
In silver coverlid and clothing,
Beside my brother, Thomas Browne.

And, while I live, I'll call Him Mighty ,
Yea, and Eloquent and Just;
And scratch in earth: Integer Vitae;
And: Dolce Mors upon the dust.