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Poem	Arise my body, my small body, we have striven Enough, and He is merciful; we are forgiven. Arise small body, puppet-like and pale, and go, White as the bed-clothes into bed, and cold as snow, Undress with small, cold fingers and put out the light, And be alone, hush'd mortal, in the sacred night, -A meadow whipt flat with the rain, a cup Emptied and clean, a garment washed and folded up, Faded in colour, thinned almost to raggedness By dirt and by the washing of that dirtiness. Be not too quickly warm again. Lie cold; consent To weariness' and pardon's watery element. Drink up the bitter water, breathe the chilly death; Soon enough comes the riot of our blood and breath.
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