Image result for pulling a living body from the grave in painting

When the first, cold, October winds
Blow umbrellas apart,
And leaves fall, and my miserable heart,
Becomes more miserable, as it finds
Broken avenues filled with rain,
Ushering in winter’s promise of still more pain,
I want to hibernate. I tell my friends:
Bury me, until April rises in the valley where winter ends,
Kissing delicately with dreaming rains the cool flower beds.
Now, you could wake me for Thanksgiving’s feast,
Or Christmas eve, or Christmas day, at least,
When holy morning in darkness slowly spreads.
But no. The whole, dark, season let me sleep.
Unless you hear from her. Then drag me from the worms that creep.



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