I do not want a plain box,
Carrying bouquet, and handkerchief, and gloves,
I want to be looking at them when they come,
My childhood was only a menacing shower,
Cut now and then by hours of brilliant heat,
I see them already the pale, star distance faces,
They will wonder if I was important,
Above, below me, only depths and shoal,
And the lords right arm traces his nightmare,
Truceless, multi form,
A few more breaths, and it will reflect nothing at all.
The flowers and the faces whiten to a sheet.
Sometimes I see alone,
The river of dark purple,
It arrives among all that sound,
Comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it,
No finger in it,
I cuddle the insensible blank air,
And dear to sleep as one fears a great hole.
Which of these hearts beat for the smile you gave?
The charms of horror please none but the brave,
Or do you hope when sing the violins,
And the pale candle flame lights up your sins,
They will roll me up in bandages, they will store my heart,
Under my feet in a nice parcel,
When horror comes the way that beauty went,
The angel’s sinister trumpet raised on high,
Comes and shouts with no mouth, no tongue, with no throat.
Nevertheless it’s steps can be heard
And it’s clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.
I shall hardly know myself. It will be dark,
And the shine of these things small things sweeter than the face of Ishtar.