I am death. I steal upon old men
in libraries, covering the page
that they may not look upon still words again.
The surmounting fire of their age
blossoms from a final passionate pen.
I am death. I cover the mother’s eyes
with a black cloth, and she sees
in the searing dark the terror of those cries
she loved, anguish she thought to ease
with her own sighs, will recognize.
I am death. I press the flower of the young
between my lips, and girls and boys
fade deliciously, their songs half-sung,
from very surfeit of their joys
and think the death-bell loveliest swooning rung.
I am death. I have sought knowledge right,
Child-love best, love of sweethearts sweet,
And found them such heaven that I bequeath them my
might.
I am no stranger they meet
by flickering candle-life, but their own wild sight.