By chance my fingers, resting on my face,
   Stayed suddenly there where in its orbit shone
   The lamp of all things beautiful; then on,
Following more heedfully, did softly trace
Each arch and prominence and hollow place
   That shall revealed be when all else is gone —
   Warmth, color, roundness — to oblivion,
And nothing left but darkness and disgrace.

Life like a moment passed seemed then to be;
   A transient dream this raiment that it wore;
While spelled my hand out its mortality,
   Made certain all that had seemed doubt before:
Proved — O how vaguely, yet how lucidly! —
   How much death does: and yet can do no more.


 =Shelley Johnson