It's not in misery but in oblivion

It's not in misery but in oblivion,

Not vertically in a mood of joy

Screaming the spring

Over the ancient winter,

He'll lie down, and our breath

Will chill the roundness of his cheeks,

And make his wide mouth home.

For we must whisper down the funnel

The love we had and glory in his blood

Coursing along the channels

Until the spout dried up

That flowed out of the soil

All seasons with the same meticulous power,

But the veins must fail.

He's not awake to the grave

Though we cry down the funnel,

Splitting a thought into such hideous moments

As drown, over and over, this fever.

He's dead, home, has no lover,

But our speaking does not thrive

In the bosom, or the empty channels.

Our evil, when we breathe it,

Of dissolution and the empty fall,

Won't harm the tent around him,

Uneaten and not to be pierced

By us in sin or us in gaiety.

And who shall tell the amorist

Oblivion is so loverless.