And thus, O plucker of the crocus,
Shall Death come unto thee—
Shall pluck thee from thy mother’s heart,
Shall thy embalmer be.
So may’st thou live and do and be
That Death, with riches rife,
Shall be thy welcome harbinger,—
The crocus of thy life.
GRAVITY—LIFE!
(After Browning—several miles after.)
Gravity—what?