To a Skull on My Bookshelf

O bony relic of forgotten days,

Which, from my bookshelf, dominates the room,

Your empty sockets, with sardonic gaze,

Follow me weirdly in the deepening gloom!

I often think, if sudden speech returned,

You might reveal that secret, grisly jest

You're grinning at — or tell me what you've learned

Of that dark realm to which we're all addressed.

By what rude hands were you exhumed, and why

Wrenched from your body in its earthy bed?

Who knows but such indignity will I

Receive at other hands, when I am dead,

And, strangely resurrected, may adorn

The wall or desk of one as yet unborn!