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(22 August 1893 - 7 June 1967 / Long Branch / New Jersey)

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Epitaph

The first time I died, I walked my ways;
I followed the file of limping days.

I held me tall, with my head flung up,
But I dared not look on the new moon's cup.

I dared not look on the sweet young rain,
And between my ribs was a gleaming pain.

The next time I died, they laid me deep.
They spoke worn words to hallow my sleep.

They tossed me petals, they wreathed me fern,
They weighted me down with a marble urn.

And I lie here warm, and I lie here dry,
And watch the worms slip by, slip by.

Submitted: Monday, January 13, 2003


Read poems about / on: moon, rain, sleep, pain, time

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  • Cynthia Buhain-baello (12/29/2009 8:58:00 AM)

    A poem for someone lying in a grave- epitaph. Written in jest supposedly by the 'dead' body - describing how it looks from her grave point of view. Crafty and witty as always with a cutting last line.! 0+++

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  • April Castro (11/1/2006 6:35:00 PM)

    I wonder what the poems' connotation is? Can anyone help me?

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