Unripe Falling

He felt the fever

Like a halo

Burn the pillow

Back of his head.

In his palms

The fever fluttered

Like two caught birds

Not quite dead;

And he thought for a fleeting

Fleeting minute

Of all that he still had

Left to be done,

And he wondered how you should

Make ready

When you know you must soon step

Out of the sun.

He thought of Christ

With firm high forehead,

And firm strange lips,

And the hair's brown sheen;

He thought of Christ

With glance intensive,

Eyes' unwinking

Aquamarine.

He remembered the ancient

Consolation -

That now he was knowing

It can't be true.

He remembered the sweet words

Bitterly, going:

"I go to prepare

A place for you."

Then taking the last

Of his anxious breathing,

He turned away wrapped

In the fever's flame,

Never again -

Whoever voiced it -

To answer the speaking

Of his name.

With regret for his youth

His friends went by him,

His sisters stayed

Upstairs to weep.

But the old man said, as if to music,

"Oh how good it is

To sleep!"

The old man told himself again:

"He

Giveth His

Beloved

Sleep."