A Testament

This is my Testament of all my gear

My limbs to larch; my eyes to marigolds,

My locks to grass: and thou, bird of the wolds

Build in my brain for nest and never fear

But if on blasted peaks the wheeling Kite

Darkens a ghastly sunset as I die

I will stretch arms from that lone crag and cry

"Thank God the Vultures have a feast tonight".