564
TWO POEMS
But what is fire to a living man
Is nothing at all to a bone.
He lies at ease in the cold and the mould,
And he lies at ease alone.
He will be part of the earth in time,
You will be only dust,
And your carven door will be nothing more
Than a heap of eating rust.
So much for your azure fleur-de-lis,
And your cross in a chevron d'or.
He will be lilies in a morning breeze
At the foot of a sycamore.
The world goes round, and the world goes round,
And who knows what may come out of the ground
When a man is planted under a mound.
