1130

That odd old man is dead a year—
We miss his stated Hat.
’Twas such an evening bright and stiff
His faded lamp went out.

Who miss his antiquated Wick—
Are any **** for him?
Waits any indurated mate
His wrinkled coming Home?

Oh Life, begun in fluent Blood
And consummated dull!
Achievement contemplating thee—
Feels transitive and cool.