La vie décousue

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(To a Man who main­tained that the Mauso­leum is the Stateli­est Pos­sible Man­ner of Interment)

I would be one with the dark, dark earth:—
Fol­low the plough with a yokel tread.
I would be part of the Indian corn,
Walk­ing the rows with the plumes o’erhead.

I would be one with the lav­ish earth,
Eat­ing the bee-stung apples red:
Walk­ing where lambs walk on the hills;
By oak-grove paths to the pools be led.

I would be one with the dark-bright night
When spark­ling skies and the light­ning wed—
Walk­ing on with the vicious wind
By roads whence even the dogs have fled.

I would be one with the sac­red earth
On to the end, till I sleep with the dead.
Ter­ror shall put no spears through me.
Peace shall jewel my shroud instead.

I shall be one with all pit-black things
Find­ing their lower­ing threat unsaid:
Stars for my pil­low there in the gloom,—
Oak-roots arch­ing about my head!

Stars, like dais­ies, shall rise through the earth,
Acorns fall round my breast that bled.
Chil­dren shall weave there a flowery chain,
Squir­rels on acorn-hearts be fed:—

Fruit of the traveller-heart of me,
Fruit of my harvest-songs long sped:
Sweet with the life of my sun­burned days
When the sheaves were ripe, and the apples red.

1:50, 1.7M
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