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All that I owe the fellows of the grave And all the dead bequeathed from pale estates Lies in the fortuned bone, the flask1 of blood, Like senna stirs along the ravaged2 roots. O all I owe is all the flesh inherits, My fathers' loves that pull upon my nerves, My sisters tears that sing upon my head My brothers' blood that salts my open wounds Heir to the scalding veins3 that hold love's drop, My fallen filled, that had the hint of death, Heir to the telling senses that alone Acquaint the flesh with a remembered itch4, I round this heritage as rounds the sun His windy sky, and, as the candles moon, Cast light upon my weather. I am heir To women who have twisted their last smile, To children who were suckled on a plague, To young adorers dying on a kiss. All such disease I doctor in my blood, And all such love's a shrub5 sown in the breath. Then look, my eyes, upon this bonehead fortune And browse6 upon the postures7 of the dead; All night and day I eye the ragged8 globe Through periscopes9 rightsighted from the grave; All night and day I wander in these same Wax clothes that wax upon the aging ribs10; All night my fortune slumbers11 in its sheet. Then look, my heart, upon the scarlet12 trove13, And look, my grain, upon the falling wheat; All night my fortune slumbers in its sheet.
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