Then follows a description
Of an interval called death
By the living.
But I shall speak of it
As of brief illness.
For it lasted only
From being not ill
To being not ill.

It came about by chance—
I met God.
‘What,’ he said, ‘you already?’
‘What,’ I said, ‘you still?’
He apologized and I apologized.
‘I thought I was alone,’ he said.
‘Are you displeased?’ I said.
‘I suppose I should not be,’ he said.
A dove hopped out of his sleeve
And muted well in his palm.
Frowning, he wrung its neck.
‘Are there any more of you?’ he said,
Tears in his eyes, but politely.
‘As many as you care to meet,’ I said.
Tears falling, he said politely,
‘I can't wait, but remember me to them.’

Here was an awkward moment
Worthy of my awkwardness at last.

A Prince once kissed my cheek, saying,
‘Accept the only homage possible
From a vulgarian.’
And I did not protest.
But that was in a dream,
And the fellow only democratic-royal.
This was a more far-reaching
Crisis of deportment,
And I am describing it
Without lightness or guile.
Indeed, my manner at the time
Was my manner now.

Then God said,
‘I suppose I must be going.’
I said, not impolitely,
‘I suppose you must.’
Then follows a description
Of this brief illness—
Not to seem to be saying idly,
‘I am not ill,’ which of course you knew.

Yes, there has been an interval
Generally described as death.
Thank you, I am now as I was.
Perhaps you are not really interested,
Since it was really only a brief illness.
But I think it right to tell you
That nothing worse can happen now—
It was the worst, and thank you.
Then follows the old routine
Of being, thank you, not ill.
Perhaps indeed, like God,
You had better be going,
Instead of tears, a bored expression,
It having been made clear to you
That no more news will come from me
Than that I am, as usual, not ill.
Think of me, if you like, as dead,
And no description following.

And if this seems too final,
Was not such our common object,
Although our meanings differ somewhat?
You were listening for a something
And I have uttered you a something
That further listening of yours
And further uttering of mine
Could not make mean to you
More than you wished to know
Of what comes after—
Not more than: here ends.

My progress is not, like yours,
Toward a last page.
Should we not therefore part
When you at book's end tire
And make as if not to turn over?
For my progress is toward
To be as usual not ill.
A description having followed
Of an interval called death
By the living,
Perhaps you had better be going,
Since yours is not my way of ending.
There is always difference somewhat
When meanings differ somewhat.
You would continue to wear
A look of waiting for
A chapter you would never read,
And I to seem only standing still
Between furthermore and furthermore.
You would complain much of the weather,
That everybody's scapegoat.

What, you may say,
Have I grown cold to you,
Have we not been friends since—
Yes, since the first page.
No, I am as usual,
Sensitive to the weather like you,
Mysterious of what next.
But you are growing different,
Restless to leave off.
By your time, the same as mine
When once we had one clock,
Patience is threadbare.
By mine, I am as usual not ill
After a brief illness,
An interval upon which
Time's unanimity divides.

You wished to learn courage
For a certain destined major event
By flattering me to go first.
But, being not of your long ranks
Of hour-strung distances from death,
I have been here always
And so have only to report
A certain chance minor event
That fell to me by chance alone
Of walking into where I was.
At least, I cannot teach you courage,
Which comes by the grace of God
When patience goes.
I am not God.
True, we have met,
Which seems to clinch identity,
Since God like me went first.
But that will always be
To-morrow to God,
As it has always been
A yesterday to me
Between to-day and to-day.

And now I shall be frank,
Since we are about to part.
The interval, a description of which
Followed your desire for one,
Was a description merely.
I have not, of course, met God,
Or been ill, either long or briefly.
What, I have lied to you!
Yes, I have lied.
And, having had your lie,
Perhaps now you had better be going.
Then follows all that has preceded.
No, I have not met God.
Or, if you insist upon the truth,
I have so met him.
And what now, having had your truth?
Perhaps you will not be going.
Clearly some one had better be going.
I, for one, shall continue where I am.
God, I believe, will live on memories,
You, I believe, each on forgetfulness.
Perhaps we had all better be going.
Perhaps I have not made myself plain.

Ah, the pity of it for me,
To be by name a poet,
To make myself plain,
And yet not to make myself plain
Because of being by name a poet,
A creature neither man nor God.
Yes, such a creature by name,
But featured like both man and God—
Like God, a creature of mind,
Like man, a creature of mouth.
Ah, the pity of it,
To be a mouth and mind,
But dimly named,
As if this third where two contended
Were murky mumbling peace thereof.

And ah, the pity of it for you,
To be by feature man or God,
And poet by name only to claim
That beyond man and God lies only
What only might a poet only claim,
Being creature of name only.
Ah, the pity of it for us all.
Perhaps we had better not be going.
Perhaps I had better write another poem
And, if necessary, yet another,
Until a description follows
Of an interval after which
There's no return to time again,
To paradoxing truth between
The two same poles of logic,
Each lengthened out from each—
After which no description,
Except as words from human habit
Divide their meaning from themselves,
Draw round the infinite centre
A shy circumference of books.