408
Unit, like Death, for Whom?
True, like the Tomb
Who tells no secret
Told to Him
The Grave is strict
Tickets admit
Just two—the Bearer
And the Borne
And seat—just One
The Living—tell
The Dying—but a Syllable
The Coy Dead—None
No Chatter—here—no tea
So Babbler, and Bohea—stay there
But Gravity—and Expectation—and Fear
A tremor just, that All's not sure
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