I waited calmly—when I died—
Hands clasped on breathless Chest.
I slowed my Mind—shut fast my Eyes—
And longed for wakeless Rest.
I thought about Earth’s warm Caress,
The sweet Release of Rot:
To slowly seep into the Ground,
My former Form—forgot.
I waited for the Hordes of Worms
That would my Self disperse,
And spread me out o’er all the World
That I in Life travers’d.
I hoped to feed a Buttercup,
Enrich a bitter Yew,
That I might reach no Heaven grand,
But tour this Orb—anew.
Excited now, I sent up Shoots
Toward where the Sun had shined,
But found my Movement checked—alas—
And then I knew what was my Fate:
An Eyesore e’er to be,
By ’Balmer’s Art a Blemish made,