All that I owe the fellows of the grave

　　And all the dead bequeathed from pale estates

　　Lies in the fortuned bone， the flask of blood，

　　Like senna stirs along the ravaged roots.

　　O all I owe is all the flesh inherits，

　　My fathers' loves that pull upon my nerves，

　　My sisters tears that sing upon my head

　　My brothers' blood that salts my open wounds

　　Heir to the scalding veins that hold love's drop，

　　My fallen filled， that had the hint of death，

　　Heir to the telling senses that alone

　　Acquaint the flesh with a remembered itch，

　　I round this heritage as rounds the sun

　　His windy sky， and， as the candles moon，

　　Cast light upon my weather. I am heir

　　To women who have twisted their last smile，

　　To children who were suckled on a plague，

　　To young adorers dying on a kiss.

　　All such disease I doctor in my blood，

　　And all such love's a shrub sown in the breath.

　　Then look， my eyes， upon this bonehead fortune

　　And browse upon the postures of the dead；

　　All night and day I eye the ragged globe

　　Through periscopes rightsighted from the grave；

　　All night and day I wander in these same

　　Wax clothes that wax upon the aging ribs；

　　All night my fortune slumbers in its sheet.

　　Then look， my heart， upon the scarlet trove，

　　And look， my grain， upon the falling wheat；

　　All night my fortune slumbers in its sheet.