You haven’t missed anything yet:
One dawn, one breakfast, and a little weather,
The clamor of birds whose names
You didn’t know, perhaps some housework,
Homework, or a quick sale.
The trees are still the same color,
And the Mayor is still the mayor, and we’re not
Having anything unusual for lunch.
No one has kissed her yet
Or slept with him. Our humdrum lives
Have gone on humming and drumming
Through one more morning.

But for a while, we must consider
What you might have wished
To do or look like. So far,
Thinking of you, no one has forgotten
Anything he wanted to remember.
Your death is fresh as a prize
Vegetable—familiar but amazing,
Admirable but not yet useful—
And you’re in a class
By yourself. We don’t know
Quite what to make of you.

You’ve noticed you don’t die
All at once. Some people like me
Still offer you our songs
Because we don’t know any better
And because you might believe
At last whatever we sing
About you, since no one else is dreaming
Of singing. Remember that time
When you were wrong? Well, you were right.
And here’s more comfort: all fires burn out
As quickly as they burn. They’re over
before we know it, like accidents.

You may feel you were interrupted
Rudely, cut off in the middle 
Of something crucial,
And you may even be right
Today, but tomorrow
No one will think so.
Today consists of millions
Of newsless current events
Like the millions of sticks and stones
From here to the horizon. What are you
Going to miss? The calendar
Is our only program.

Next week or next year
Is soon enough to consider
Those brief occasions you might rather
Not have lost: the strange ones
You might go so far 
As to say you could have died for:
Love, for example, or all
The other inflammations of the cerebral
Cortex, the astounding, irreversible 
Moments you kept promising yourself
To honor, which are as far away 
Now as they always were.