The days will rally, wreathing
Their crazy tarantelle
And you must go on breathing
But I'll be safe in hell

Like January weather
The years will bite and smart
And pull your bones together
To wrap your chattering heart

The pretty stuff you're made of
Will crack and crease and dry
The thing you are afraid of
Will look from every eye

You will go faltering after
The bright, imperious line
And split your throat on laughter
And burn your eyes with brine

You will be frail and musty
With peering, furtive head
Whilst I am young and lusty
Among the roaring dead