On Death

Last night I felt the thread Of the death shroud on my lips. And my ribs quivered In their ghastly vacant hole. And I stole out of the Night den quickly giving to Chase those who called me, Phantoms who summoned and led. At my bed awaited A dreary mix of lost souls. Though their coal ran short The perfume was drunk in sips. * At the tip of mountains The edge of the sea a trail. No life, pale life here Oh, the scenes I've remembered. And a giver of a Most fantastic light that I Never spied nor knew Of my ever being told. Was I bold enough To believe my flower dead? Succumbed I to the Power growing in my breast.