The first time I died, I walked my ways; <br />I followed the file of limping days. <br /> <br />I held me tall, with my head flung up, <br />But I dared not look on the new moon's cup. <br /> <br />I dared not look on the sweet young rain, <br />And between my ribs was a gleaming pain. <br /> <br />The next time I died, they laid me deep. <br />They spoke worn words to hallow my sleep. <br /> <br />They tossed me petals, they wreathed me fern, <br />They weighted me down with a marble urn. <br /> <br />And I lie here warm, and I lie here dry, <br />And watch the worms slip by, slip by.<br /><br />Dorothy Parker<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/epitaph-2/
