The Poetry Corner

Anatomy

By Walter De La Mare

By chance my fingers, resting on my face, Stayed suddenly where in its orbit shone The lamp of all things beautiful; then on, Following more heedfully, did softly trace Each arch and prominence and hollow place That shall revealed be when all else is gone - Warmth, colour, roundness - to oblivion, And nothing left but darkness and disgrace. Life like a moment passed seemed then to be; A transient dream this raiment that it wore; While spelled my hand out its mortality Made certain all that had seemed doubt before: Proved - O how vaguely, yet how lucidly! - How much death does; and yet can do no more.