Deathwards go I—
You must login to vote
Through this needle’s narrowing eye
Called Life, —
With mortal Thread stitched—.
If garment be weaved—
From Life by the Weaver’s loom;
Then weaved was
I by Him— ‘til worn and creased
Out of shape into Death’s cold womb—.
"To have the soul of a poet is to feel with the mind, and to think with the heart."