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