THE LITTLE DEATH
What voice is this
Sings so, rings so
Within my head?
Not mine, for I am dead,
And a deep peace
Wraps me, haps me
From head to feet
Like a smooth winding-sheet.
Before my eyes
Reeling, wheeling,
Leaf-green stars
Have changed to purple bars
And flickered out;
Spinning, thinning,
Up the wall,
That has grown very tall.
Only that voice—
Distant, insistent;
Like the high
Stroked glass’s airy cry;
Echoing on,
Winds me, binds me
As with a thread
Spun from my own head.
O speak not yet!
Forget me, let me
Lie here as calm
As saints that nurse their palm;
Whilst like a tide
Turning, returning,
Silence and gloom
Flow in and fill the room.