BURYING friends is not a pomp, br Not, indeed, Roman: br Lacking the monument, br Heroic stone; br Nor is it an obscuring parasol, br The pad of customary gloves and cries br And a black leather mourning-carriage br Hung between death and the beholder's eyes. br This little bin of cancelled flesh br Strode the earth once, br Rubbed against men— br But that's all done. br A gentle elegy, a tear or two, br May charm the grave-diggers, no doubt, br But nothing can count to these incongrous ruins. br Their commercial value is not worth speaking about. br Only it seems not a burial br Of irrelevant sods, br But a lopped member br From this my body; br Almost, in fact, a tiny amputation, br A paring of biography, thrown in there. br And he has thieved his own life away br And something from mine.