Braggart

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