| |
| I HAVE spoken with the dead; | |
| From the silence of my bed | |
| I have heard them in the night. | |
| Their voices are as white | |
| As altar candles. Their voices are as gold as wheat, | 5 |
| And clustered in the dark their words are sweet | |
| As ripened fruit. Their voices are the color of dim rain | |
| Over grass where spring has lain. | |
| Their speaking is an orchard of delight. | |
| I have heard them in the night; | 10 |
| Their lips bloomed into heavy song | |
| That hung like bells above me. You are wrong | |
| Who say the dead lie still: | |
| I heard them sing until | |
| The cup of silence fell in two and lay | 15 |
| Broken by beauty of what dead men say. | |
| |
| There is no loveliness I cannot see. | |
| There is no wall too stern for me. | |
| There is no door that can withstand | |
| The lifted symbol of my hand. | 20 |
| |
| I know an ancient shibboleth: | |
| I pass, for I have talked with Death! | |
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