Wear purple, and fixedly proclaim,
Your aphorisms, as if you were wise,
For wisdom seemingly is all you have,
To lave your meddling with sweet champagne.
Let people read your words and find them meet,
As close to truth as things their mothers’ said,
This is the empty winding of the sheet,
This is the vain conviction of the dead.
Tiptoe your careless, carefulness,
As cats through ornaments their bodies thread,
Along the mantelpieces of the mind,
Where Dresden shepardesses mark the pyre.
These are the times we envy not the dead,
Although upon that road our steps conspire,
Hush, hush, we step so lightly none will cry,
Or turn in bitter sleep as we pass by.
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