Death, hold not me dear; when pressed,
we juxtapose, but never have we met.
The mean of man and shade is graves,
more stone than home, and row on row
the holy go to sleep.
I have slipped through smoky pastures,
morning heavy, morning light,
while breathing deep and bowing low,
the holy go to sleep.
I am red, and rest in ash,
the embers dead, the salt so sweet;
the powder soft, so soft, so
soft the holy sleep.
Death, hold not me fast; when pressed,
we juxtapose, but never will we meet.
I have crept a circle bright
around the holy mountain, a spire steep
reposed in smoke, the dead below,
so long their sleep.