[Now of threescore and ten]

Now of threescore and ten

fewer than twelve remain.

Granted, that limit’s set

loosely—perhaps there wait

twenty or twenty-five

—but I’d as soon not live

(sooner) as long as that,

if living’s the word for it.

Contrariwise of course

death may come sooner—soon

perhaps, for better or worse,

as indeed it might have done

at any time before.

Anyhow, with threescore

lifting over the hill,

it’s a moment to take a cool

look in the face, or

rather at the fact, of death.

What do I see?

Chiefly the urgency

of looking, rather, deep

and long, with all the warmth

I have—look? rather, dip

deep in the living breath

of this warm, beautiful

—and cold, and horrible

—but felt whatever way

this endlessly absorbing love, earth.

Observe, absorb her faces of night and day

before the more than sleep.