The first time I died, I walked my ways; I followed the file of limping days. I held me tall, with my head flung up, But I dared not look on the new moon's cup. I dared not look on the sweet young rain, And between my ribs was a gleaming pain. The next time I died, they laid me deep. They spoke worn words to hallow my sleep. They tossed me petals, they wreathed me fern, They weighted me down with a marble urn. And I lie here warm, and I lie here dry, And watch the worms slip by, slip by.