When the morning was waking over the war

　　He put on his clothes and stepped out and he died，

　　The locks yawned loose and a blast blew them wide，

　　He dropped where he loved on the burst pavement stone

　　And the funeral grains of the slaughtered floor.

　　Tell his street on its back he stopped a sun

　　And the craters of his eyes grew springshots and fire

　　When all the keys shot from the locks， and rang.

　　Dig no more for the chains of his grey-haired heart.

　　The heavenly ambulance drawn by a wound

　　Assembling waits for the spade's ring on the cage.

　　O keep his bones away from the common cart，

　　The morning is flying on the wings of his age

　　And a hundred storks perch on the sun's right hand.