Enough Rope/Braggart
Braggart
THE days will rally, wreathingTheir crazy tarantelle;And you must go on breathing,But I’ll be safe in hell.
Like January weather,The years will bite and smart,And pull your bones togetherTo wrap your chattering heart.
The pretty stuff you’re made ofWill crack and crease and dry.The thing you are afraid ofWill look from every eye.
You will go faltering afterThe bright, imperious line,And split your throat on laughter,And burn your eyes with brine.
You will be frail and mustyWith peering, furtive head,Whilst I am young and lustyAmong the roaring dead.