Down, down, down into the darkness of the graveGently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

Listen, children:Your father is dead.From his old coatsI'll make you little jackets;I'll make you little trousersFrom his old pants.There'll be in his pocketsThings he used to put there,Keys and penniesCovered with tobacco;Dan shall have the penniesTo save in his bank;Anne shall have the keysTo make a pretty noise with.Life must go on,Though good men die;Anne, eat your breakfast;Dan, take your medicine;Life must go on;I forget just why.

I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death.

Into each dance must be packed the panic and ecstasy of her last moment of life, for underneath was death.

This I do, being mad:Gather baubles about me,Sit in a circle of toys, and all the timeDeath beating the door in.

And you as well must die, beloved dust,And all your beauty stand you in no stead;This flawless, vital hand, this perfect head,This body of flame and steel, before the gust.

SiegeThis I do, being mad:Gather baubles about me,Sit in a circle of toys, and all the timeDeath beating the door in.White jade and an orange pitcher,Hindu idol, Chinese god,—Maybe next year, when I’m richer—Carved beads and a lotus pod...And all this timeDeath beating the door in.

You leave me much against my will.

And so beneath the weight lay IAnd suffered death, but could not die.