To rob a grave not yet stuffed With friendship, only full of woe For one no longer friend or foe Or anything, though breath still puffs And somewhere past horizons dim He lives on like a mute reproach In caustic quiet, silently loath To burst with bounty I need from him. Unanswering wall, unhuman hate --Or so I paint him, as I must, Who have no knowing from old trust, As though Christ transfigured my Greek fate. I stand before the empty hole I lay myself within the dirt I say a prayer for my hurt To maggots, and my breath is stale. If I were all of misery made And could confound my final hour With a tear, then no more power Would he have than a shade. Instead there's lodged the sovereign sting Of hope betrayed, hope that will not Die, though hope's death and gory rot Would stop the hole of my being.