The Wise

Dead men are wisest, for they

How far the roots of flowers go,

How long a seed must rot to grow.

Dead men alone bear frost and

On throbless heart and heatless brain,

And feel no stir of joy or pain.

Dead men alone are satiate;

They sleep and dream and have no weight,

To curb their rest, of love or hate.

Strange, men should flee their company,

Or think me strange who long to

Wrapped in their cool immunity.