who’s most afraid of death?thou
                                  art of him
utterly afraid,i love of thee
(beloved)this
 
                 and truly i would be
near when his scythe takes crisply the whim
of thy smoothness.  and mark the fainting
murdered petals.  with caving stem.
 
But of all most would i be one of them
 
round the hurt heart which do so frailly cling….)
i who am but imperfect in my fear
 
Or with thy mind against my mind,to hear
nearing our hearts’ irrevocable play—
through the mysterious high futile day
 
an enormous stride
                      (and drawing thy mouth toward
 
my mouth,steer our lost bodies carefully downward.

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