Corpse by David Park Barnitz — Read

A dead corpse crowned with a crown of gold Sits thron'd beneath the sky's gigantic pall;

Gold garments from its rotted shoulders fall, And regal purple robes funereal.

Before its face a vast processional Goes by with offerings for its great knees cold;

Its soft hand doth a golden sceptre hold;

And in its flesh lie sleeping worms uproll'd.

They that pass ceaseless by see not at all;

They know not that beneath its garments' fold Is but a corpse, rotted, and dead, and tall.

He is accurst that sees it dead and old;

He is accurst that sees: the white worms call For him: for him have funeral dirges toll'd.