Edna St. Vincent Millay - Moriturus lyrics

If I could have Two things in one: The peace of the grave, And the light of the sun; My hands across My thin breast-bone, But aware of the moss Invading the stone, Aware of the flight Of the golden flicker With his wing to the light; To hear him nicker And drum with his bill On the rotted window; Snug and still On a gray pillow Deep in the clay Where digging is hard, Out of the way,– The blue shard Of a broken platter– If I might be Insensate matter With sensate me Sitting within, Harking and prying, I might begin To dicker with dying. For the body at best Is a bundle of aches, Longing for rest; It cries when it wakes "Alas, ‘tis light!" At set of sun "Alas, ‘tis night, And nothing done!" d**h, however, Is a spongy wall, Is a sticky river, Is nothing at all. Summon the weeper, Wail and sing; Call him Reaper, Angel, King; Call him Evil Drunk to the lees, Monster, Devil– He is less than these. Call him Thief, The Maggot in the Cheese, The Canker in the Leaf– He is less than these. Dusk without sound, Where the spirit by pain Uncoiled, is wound To spring again; The mind enmeshed Laid straight in repose, And the body refreshed By feeding the rose– These are but visions; These would be The grave's derisions, Could the grave see. Here is the wish Of one that died Like a beached fish On the ebb of the tide: That he might wait Till the tide came back, To see if a crate, Or a bottle, or a black Boot, or an oar, Or an orange peel Be washed ashore . . . . About his heel The sand slips; The last he hears From the world's lips Is the sand in his ears. What thing is little?– The aphis hid In a house of spittle? The hinge of the lid Of the spider's eye At the spider's birth? "Greater am I By the earth's girth "Than Mighty d**h!" All creatures cry That can summon breath– And speak no lie. For he is nothing; He is less Than Echo answering "Nothingness!"– Less than the heat Of the furthest star To the ripening wheat; Less by far, When all the lipping Is said and sung, Than the sweat dripping From a dog's tongue. This being so, And I being such, I would liever go On a cripple's crutch, Lopped and felled; Liever be dependent On a chair propelled By a surly attendant With a foul breath, And be spooned my food, Than go with d**h Where nothing good, Not even the thrust Of the summer gnat, Consoles the dust For being that. Needy, lonely, Stitched by pain, Left with only The drip of the rain Out of all I had; The books of the wise, Badly read By other eyes, Lewdly bawled At my closing ear; Hated, called A lingerer here– Withstanding d**h Till Life be gone, I shall treasure my breath, I shall linger on. I shall bolt my door With a bolt and a cable; I shall block my door With a bureau and table; With all my might My door shall be barred. I shall put up a fight, I shall take it hard. With his hand on my mouth He shall drag me forth, Shrieking to the south And clutching at the north.