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To Death

by Ruby Archer

Death, have you flowers
To lay on my grave?
Bid them appear
Where flinty stones pave.

Death, have you laurels
To crown a mere name?
Only the living
Are conscious of fame.

Death, have you manna,
My spirit to feed?
Let me have daily bread
Now in my need.

Death, I will foil you—
No more importune.
Lo!—I want nothing.
Keep your poor boon!