Last Look at Leaving.

No sarcophagus will be as gentle As the four-cornered hat I wore The decade and a half here Though the price to bear Is black distress and fear And hurried aging and tethered wear Skimmed above the silver shadow show, A purring life unburred from butter spread For more than my daily bread. Tonight as once again my eyes Close in weariness, my sighs And suspirations endlessly Cloy my soul, cleaving me, Leaving me for goners, offal For the wolves; the luck of all Cursed beneath the lids, pursed In skin and wattled, lined, and worst, Tomorrow will not bring a hint Of Fortune's spin or fire from the flint. An empty room (exuding its neutrality), Lashing out (at last) in its finality. E N D .