CHAPTER 1

the nature of death

In which the poets reflect on what death is, meditate on why it happens, and pontificate onwhat it means to us

    From "Song of Myself"

    WALT WHITMAN

    I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men
    and women, And the hints about old men and mothers, and the
    offspring taken soon out of their laps.
    What do you think has become of the young and old men?
    And what do you think has become of the women and children?
    They are alive and well somewhere,
    The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
    And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end
    to arrest it,
    And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.
    All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
    And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

    * * *

    Death the Leveller

    JAMES SHIRLEY

    The glories of our blood and state
    Are shadows, not substantial things;
    There is no armour against fate;
    Death lays his icy hand on kings:
    Sceptre and Crown
    Must tumble down,
    And in the dust be equal made
    With the poor crookèd scythe and spade.
    Some men with swords may reap the field,
    And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
    But their strong nerves at last must yield;
    They tame but one another still:
    Early or late
    They stoop to fate,
    And must give up their murmuring breath,
    When they, pale captives, creep to death.
    The garlands wither on your brow;
    Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
    Upon Death's purple altar now
    See, where the victor-victim bleeds:
    Your heads must come
    To the cold tomb;
    Only the actions of the just
    Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

    * * *

    Dirge

    ALFRED KREYMBORG

    Death alone
    has sympathy for weariness:
    understanding
    of the ways
    of mathematics:
    of the struggle
    against giving up what was given:
    the plus one minus one
    of nitrogen for oxygen:
    and the unequal odds,
    you a cell
    against the universe,
    a breath or two
    against all time:
    Death alone
    takes what is left
    without protest, criticism
    or a demand for more
    than one can give
    who can give
    no more than was given:
    doesn't even ask,
    but accepts it as it is,
    without examination,
    valuation,
    or comparison.

    * * *

    Poets Have Chanted Mortality

    JOHN CROWE RANSOM

    It had better been hidden
    But the Poets inform:
    We are chattel and liege
    Of an undying Worm.
    Were you, Will, disheartened,
    When all Stratford's gentry
    Left their Queen and took service
    In his low-lying country?
    How many white cities
    And grey fleets on the storm
    Have proud-builded, hard-battled,
    For this undying Worm?
    Was a sweet chaste lady
    Would none of her lover.
    Nay, here comes the Lewd One,
    Creeps under her cover!
    Have ye said there's no deathless
    Of face, fashion, form,
    Forgetting to honor
    The extent of the Worm?
    O ye laughers and light-lipped,
    Ye faithless, infirm,
    I can tell you who's constant,
    'Tis the Eminent Worm.
    Ye shall trip on no limits,
    Neither time ye your term,
    In the realms of His Absolute
    Highness the Worm.

    * * *

    Death Is a Fisherman

    BENJAMIN FRANKLIN (ATTRIBUTED)

    Death is a fisherman, the world we see
    His fish-pond is, and we the fishes be;
    His net some general sickness; howe'er he
    Is not so kind as other fishers be;
    For if they take one of the smaller fry,
    They throw him in again, he shall not die:
    But death is sure to kill all he can get,
    And all is fish with him that comes to net.

* * *

Death Snips Proud Men

CARL SANDBURG

Death is stronger than all the governments because the governmentsare men and men die and then death laughs: Now you see 'em,now you don't.

Death is stronger than all proud men and so death snips proud men onthe nose, throws a pair of dice and says: Read 'em and weep.

Death...