The smooth, unobtrusive walls say “Hush!” in a voice of honey and meal,
The refined and comforting chairs protest that sorrow may be genteel,
They are all hiding the dead away, they are huddling them off to
forget....
—I would rather scoop a hole in the sand till my hands ran blood and
sweat,
I would rather raise my friend on a pyre for the lightning to do its
will,
I would sooner leave my dead to the dogs—they are happy over their kill—
Than to bring them here to this oily place to lie like a numbered sheaf!
—This servants’ quiet can have no room for my racked and horrible grief—
The windows smile with the smiles of masks, the curtains are specters
walking,
And Death, the obsequious gentleman, comes rubbing black gloves and
talking!