This Chasm, Sweet, upon my life

If we demur, its gaping sides

Disclose as 'twere a Tomb

Ourself am lying straight wherein

The Favorite of Doom.

When it has just contained a Life

Then, Darling, it will close

And yet so bolder every Day

So turbulent it grows

I'm tempted half to stitch it up

With a remaining Breath

I should not miss in yielding, though

To Him, it would be Death —

And so I bear it big about

My Burial — before

A Life quite ready to depart

Can harass me no more —