death poem

their beautiful hair
one sweetly solemn thought
for these white arms about my neck
when i go back to earth
noises that strive to tear
as a naked man i go
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
when, full of warm and eager love
out of the deep and the dark
the arches of the red bridge
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
let us pity those who are better off than we are
soft as the bed in the earth