All That I Owe The Fellows Of The Grave

All that I owe the fellows of the grave

　　And all the dead bequeathed from pale estates

　　Lies in the fortuned bone， the flask¹ of blood，

　　Like senna stirs along the ravaged² roots.

　　O all I owe is all the flesh inherits，

　　My fathers' loves that pull upon my nerves，

　　My sisters tears that sing upon my head

　　My brothers' blood that salts my open wounds

　　Heir to the scalding veins³ that hold love's drop，

　　My fallen filled， that had the hint of death，

　　Heir to the telling senses that alone

　　Acquaint the flesh with a remembered itch⁴，

　　I round this heritage as rounds the sun

　　His windy sky， and， as the candles moon，

　　Cast light upon my weather. I am heir

　　To women who have twisted their last smile，

　　To children who were suckled on a plague，

　　To young adorers dying on a kiss.

　　All such disease I doctor in my blood，

　　And all such love's a shrub⁵ sown in the breath.

　　Then look， my eyes， upon this bonehead fortune

　　And browse⁶ upon the postures⁷ of the dead；

　　All night and day I eye the ragged⁸ globe

　　Through periscopes⁹ rightsighted from the grave；

　　All night and day I wander in these same

　　Wax clothes that wax upon the aging ribs¹⁰；

　　All night my fortune slumbers¹¹ in its sheet.

　　Then look， my heart， upon the scarlet¹² trove¹³，

　　And look， my grain， upon the falling wheat；

　　All night my fortune slumbers in its sheet.