Epitah

The first time I died, I walked my ways
I followed the file of limping days
I held me tall with my head flung up
But I dared not look on the new moon's cup
I dared not look on the sweet young rain
And between my ribs was a gleaming pain
The next time I died, they laid me deep
They spoke worn words to hallow my sleep
They tossed me petals, they wreathed me fern
They weighted me down in a marble urn
And I lie here warm ; I lie here dry
And watch the worms slip by, slip by.....