If she were dying in wild leisurely fashion
Enjoying death with the great bitterness of her nature
I would be envious of her crowning and eloquent
        passion
And write her a message saying, This is your fate, your


Last accomplishment; make the most of it.
She is still frittering and mocking and is still withheld
From the large matter of her better wit;
And I who loved her neither killed nor quelled,


Think; we are odd women, the two of us. She is
The wild nature I mirror but do not have;
                                                                  And I
Am so the hater of waste that I hunger to kiss
Thehorriblefaceofherlifeandtheclothesofhergrave.
                                                                      I sigh.