My Voice Not Being Proud

My voice, not being proud

Like a strong woman’s, that cries

Imperiously aloud

That death disarm her, lull her—

Screams for no mourning color

Laid menacingly, like fire,

Over my long desire.

It will end, and leave no print.

As you lie, I shall lie:

Separate, eased, and cured.

Whatever is wasted or wanted

In this country of glass and flint

Some garden will use, once planted.

As you lie alone, I shall lie,

O, in singleness assured,

Deafened by mire and lime.

I remember, while there is time.