We know nothing of this going hence
that so excludes us. We have no grounds
for showing Death amazement and love
or hatred, since it wears the age-old mask


of tragedy that hopelessly contorts it.
The world is full of roles--which we still act.
As long as we keep striving for acclaim,
Death also plays its part--though always badly.


But when you went, a streak of reality
broke in upon the stage through that fissure
where you'd left: green of real green,
real sunshine, real forest.


We go on acting. Fearful and reciting
things difficult to learn and now and then
inventing gestures; but your existence,
withdrawn from us and taken from our play,


sometimes can come over us, like a knowledge
of that reality settling in,
so that for a time we act life
transported, not thinking of applause.