Dead men may envy living mites in cheese, Or good germs even. Microbes have their joys, And subdivide, and never come to death.
I thought of all that worked dark pits Of war, and died Digging the rock where Death reputes Peace lies indeed.
And Death fell with me, like a deepening moan. And He, picking a manner of worm, which half had hid Its bruises in the earth, but crawled no further, Showed me its feet, the feet of many men, And the fresh-severed head of it, my head.
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