Then, brother, you would never think me vain <br />Or rude, if I should mention dignity; <br />Think little of it. Dignity's the stain <br />Of mortal sin that knows humility. <br />Let me design the hour when you were born <br />Since, if that's vain, it's only childlike so: <br />Like an attempting frost on April corn <br />Considerate death would hardly let you go. <br />Reckon the cost-if you would validate <br />Once more our slavery to circumstance <br />Not by contempt of a prescriptive fate <br />But in your bearing towards an hour of chance. <br />It is a part so humble and so proud <br />You'll think but little of it in your shroud.<br /><br />Allen Tate<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnets-of-the-blood-iii/
