Short is our tenure
on this beautiful Earth.
As brief as the grass
In winter’s cold breathe.
Death, the implacable foe,
Bids us yield.
Faith is our Armor,
our Carapace, our shield.
Denial, our method
of avoiding the shroud.
When Donne is not done,
Death be not proud.
A tenuous tenor may
Give voice to fear.
Yet, turning to face him,
No one is there.
The prize is our self
And possession is all.
All else is but vanity
To hang on a wall.
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 5:45 PM UTC
Short is our tenure
on this beautiful Earth.
As brief as the grass
In winter’s cold breathe.
Death, the implacable foe,
Bids us yield.
Faith is our Armor,
our Carapace, our shield.
Denial, our method
of avoiding the shroud.
When Donne is not done,
Death be not proud.
A tenuous tenor may
Give voice to fear.
Yet, turning to face him,
No one is there.
The prize is our self
And possession is all.
All else is but vanity
To hang on a wall.
Ernest Becker,author of "The Denial of Death" won a Pulitzer prize for his book- awarded two months after his death.
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