Corpse

A dead corpse crowned with a crown of gold
Sits thron’d beneath the sky’s gigantic pall;
Gold garments from its rotted shoulders fall,
And regal purple robes funereal.

Before its face a vast processional
Goes by with offerings for its great knees cold;
Its soft hand doth a golden sceptre hold;
And in its flesh lie sleeping worms uproll’d.

They that pass ceaseless by see not at all;
They know not that beneath its garments’ fold
Is but a corpse, rotted, and dead, and tall.

He is accurst that sees it dead and old;
He is accurst that sees: the white worms call
For him: for him have funeral dirges toll’d.