4122680Copper Sun — In Spite of DeathCountee Cullen
Varia
In Spite of Death
ALL things confirm me in the thought that dust,Once raised to monumental pride of breath,To no extent affirms the right of deathTo raze such splendor to an ancient crust.“Grass withereth, the flower fadeth;” yea,But in the violated seed exults,The bleakest winter through, a deathless pulse,Beating, “Spring wipes this sacrilege away.”
No less shall I in some new fashion flareAgain, when death has blown my candles out;Although my blood went down in shameful routTonight, by all this living frame holds fair,Though death should closet me tonight, I swearTomorrow’s sun would find his cupboard bare.
