Posted in Language

Dead Man Walking

They hail me as one living,
      But don’t they know
That I have died of late years,
      Untombed although?
I am but a shape that stands here,
      A pulseless mould,
A pale past picture, screening
      Ashes gone cold.
Not at a minute’s warning,
      Not in a loud hour,
For me ceased Time’s enchantments
      In hall and bower.
There was no tragic transit,
      No catch of breath,
When silent seasons inched me
      On to this death ….
— A Troubadour-youth I rambled
      With Life for lyre,
The beats of being raging
      In me like fire.
But when I practised eyeing
      The goal of men,
It iced me, and I perished
      A little then.
When passed my friend, my kinsfolk,
      Through the Last Door,
And left me standing bleakly,
      I died yet more;
And when my Love’s heart kindled
      In hate of me,
Wherefore I knew not, died I
      One more degree.
And if when I died fully
      I cannot say,
And changed into the corpse-thing
      I am to-day,
Yet is it that, though whiling
      The time somehow
In walking, talking, smiling,
      I live not now.
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Author:

"If he's honest, he'll steal; if he's human, he'll murder; if he's faithful, he'll deceive. Being at a loss to resolve these questions, I am resolved to leave them without any resolution." I have so much to say to you that I am afraid I shall tell you nothing."

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