The Poet And His Book

Down, you mongrel, Death!                  Back into your kennel!              I have stolen breath                  In a stalk of fennel!              You shall scratch and you shall whine                  Many a night, and you shall worry                  Many a bone, before you bury              One sweet bone of mine!              When shall I be dead?                  When my flesh is withered,              And above my head                  Yellow pollen gathered              All the empty afternoon?                  When sweet lovers pause and wonder                  Who am I that lie thereunder,              Hidden from the moon?              This my personal death?--                  That lungs be failing              To inhale the breath                  Others are exhaling?              This my subtle spirit's end?--                  Ah, when the thawed winter splashes                  Over these chance dust and ashes,              Weep not me, my friend!              Me, by no means dead                  In that hour, but surely              When this book, unread,                  Rots to earth obscurely,              And no more to any breast,                  Close against the clamorous swelling                  Of the thing there is no telling,              Are these pages pressed!              When this book is mould,                  And a book of many              Waiting to be sold                  For a casual penny,              In a little open case,                  In a street unclean and cluttered,                  Where a heavy mud is spattered              From the passing drays,              Stranger, pause and look;                  From the dust of ages              Lift this little book,                  Turn the tattered pages,              Read me, do not let me die!                  Search the fading letters, finding                  Steadfast in the broken binding              All that once was I!              When these veins are weeds,                  When these hollowed sockets              Watch the rooty seeds                  Bursting down like rockets,              And surmise the spring again,                  Or, remote in that black cupboard,                  Watch the pink worms writhing upward              At the smell of rain,              Boys and girls that lie                  Whispering in the hedges,              Do not let me die,                  Mix me with your pledges;              Boys and girls that slowly walk                  In the woods, and weep, and quarrel,                  Staring past the pink wild laurel,              Mix me with your talk,              Do not let me die!                  Farmers at your raking,              When the sun is high,                  While the hay is making,              When, along the stubble strewn,                  Withering on their stalks uneaten,                  Strawberries turn dark and sweeten              In the lapse of noon;              Shepherds on the hills,                  In the pastures, drowsing              To the tinkling bells                  Of the brown sheep browsing;              Sailors crying through the storm;                  Scholars at your study; hunters                  Lost amid the whirling winter's              Whiteness uniform;              Men that long for sleep;                  Men that wake and revel;--              If an old song leap                  To your senses' level              At such moments, may it be                  Sometimes, though a moment only,                  Some forgotten, quaint and homely              Vehicle of me!              Women at your toil,                  Women at your leisure              Till the kettle boil,                  Snatch of me your pleasure,              Where the broom-straw marks the leaf;                  Women quiet with your weeping                  Lest you wake a workman sleeping,              Mix me with your grief!              Boys and girls that steal                  From the shocking laughter              Of the old, to kneel                  By a dripping rafter              Under the discolored eaves,                  Out of trunks with hingeless covers                  Lifting tales of saints and lovers,              Travelers, goblins, thieves,              Suns that shine by night,                  Mountains made from valleys,--              Bear me to the light,                  Flat upon your bellies              By the webby window lie,                  Where the little flies are crawling,--                  Read me, margin me with scrawling,              Do not let me die!              Sexton, ply your trade!                  In a shower of gravel              Stamp upon your spade!                  Many a rose shall ravel,              Many a metal wreath shall rust                  In the rain, and I go singing                  Through the lots where you are flinging              Yellow clay on dust!