Vanitas

My candle burns at both ends;
    It will not last the night; 
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends --
    It gives a lovely light!

Pale green and pressed against the window screen
 [ ... ]

A Clock stopped —
Not the Mantel's —
Geneva's farthest skill
Can't put the puppet bowing —
That just now dangled still —

An awe came on the Trinket!
The Figures hunched, with pain —
Then quivered out of Decimals —
Into Degreeless Noon —

It will not stir for Doctors —
This Pendulum of snow —
This Shopman importunes it —
While cool — concernless No —

Nods from the Gilded pointers —
Nods from the Seconds slim —
Decades of Arrogance between
The Dial life —
And Him —

Every day, 
Every day, 
Tell the hours
By their shadows, 
By their shadows.

A feather is trimmed, it is trimmed by the light and the bug and the post, 
it is trimmed by the little leaning and by all sorts of mounted reserved and loud volumes.
It is surely cohesive.

The night has cut
each from each
and curled the petals
back from the stalk
and under it in crisp rows;
under at an unfaltering pace,
under till the rinds break,
back till each bent leaf
is parted from its stalk;
under at a grave pace,
under till the leaves
are bent back
till they drop upon earth,
back till they are all broken.
O night,
you take the petals
of the roses in your hand,
but leave the stark core
of the rose
to perish on the branch.

Wouldst thou find my ashes? Look
In the pages of my book;
And, as these thy hand doth turn, 
Know here is my funeral urn.