In the Midst of Life

Bud bursting from a tomb
Of dust, this mortal knows
In winter’s sterile womb
For your despoiling grows
What comes to every rose.

Grass so securely green,
Sky-climbing corn so tall,
Know in your length is seen
What overtowers all:
The shadow of the fall.

Yet blossoms with each spring
Reopen; grasses sprout;
And jaunty corn stalks fling
New skeins of silk about.
Nature is skilled to rout

Death’s every ambuscade;
For man alone is poured
The potion once essayed
That sharper than a sword
Destroys both mouth and gourd.

Deplore, lament, bewail;
The sword seeks out the sheath;
Though all things else may fail,
Two things keep faith; this breath
A while; and longer death.