49 + 

And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm me. + 

To his work without flinching the accoucheur comes, + 

I see the elder-hand pressing receiving supporting, + 

I recline by the sills of the exquisite flexible doors, + 

And mark the outlet, and mark the relief and escape. + 

And as to you Corpse I think you are good manure, but that does not offend me, + 

I smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing, + 

I reach to the leafy lips, I reach to the polish’d breasts of melons. + 

And as to you Life I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths, + 

(No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.) + 

I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven, + 

O suns⁠—O grass of graves⁠—O perpetual transfers and promotions, + 

If you do not say anything how can I say anything? + 

Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest, + 

Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight, + 

Toss, sparkles of day and dusk⁠—toss on the black stems that decay in the muck, + 

Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs. + 

I ascend from the moon, I ascend from the night, + 

I perceive that the ghastly glimmer is noonday sunbeams reflected, + 

And debouch to the steady and central from the offspring great or small. + 