Revolving in oval loops of solar speed, <br />Couched in cauls of clay as in holy robes, <br />Dead men render love and war no heed, <br />Lulled in the ample womb of the full-tilt globe. <br /> <br />No spiritual Caesars are these dead; <br />They want no proud paternal kingdom come; <br />And when at last they blunder into bed <br />World-wrecked, they seek only oblivion. <br /> <br />Rolled round with goodly loam and cradled deep, <br />These bone shanks will not wake immaculate <br />To trumpet-toppling dawn of doomstruck day : <br />They loll forever in colossal sleep; <br />Nor can God's stern, shocked angels cry them up <br />From their fond, final, infamous decay. <br /> <br /> <br />Anonymous submission.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-dead/
