Unit, like Death, for Whom? True, like the Tomb, Who tells no secret Told to Him— The Grave is strict— Tickets admit Just two—the Bearer— And the Borne— And seat—just One— The Living—tell— The Dying—but a Syllable— The Coy Dead—None— No Chatter—here—no tea— So Babbler, and Bohea—stay there— But Gravity—and Expectation—and Fear— A tremor just, that All’s not sure.
