To this man dying speak of death.
The sounds of age lie brooding in his ears
As pigeons cooing under rotting eaves
And old hounds coughing in the dust.
His knotted breath is choked with gathered years;
His heart is creaking from an ancient rust.
Speak of death to this man dying
With the increments of time clogging his blood;
Speak of death, the rhythmic last season,
The wooden-celled, the final ripple-mark of growth
On tree, on curving horn, on earth-stained flood.
When the last pillow cups this fallen head,
Speak with the dying. Speak of the dead.