Classic Poem

If Death should tip close in a shift or magenta
With folds of flame scarlet flung from her shoulder
And looped with a silver cord to cool its shadows:
If he would but press into my hands
From lean hands some sleepy poison
Dripped from laurel stalks or scales of insects—
I would say: Let me walk with you a while,
That I may see, Death,
If among all those lusty courteous ladies
Committed to vaults and the unenlightened worms
There be any like to my lady
So shining in body and so dark in mind.