WHEN I WAS YOUNG

I will not know when I am dead

If sun or moon is overhead;

I'll stretch out flat without a sound

Inside a box beneath the ground,

And never rise again to see

Branches lifting on a tree,

Nor hear the song the finches sing

In the spring.

I'll not, while sunny ages go,

Lift a hand or wag a toe;

But in a wooden box will be

Hidden for eternity

From sea and sun, from sight and sound,

From touch of people, voice of friend,

From all that makes my heart to bound,

Denying such an end:

It is so strange — I wonder why

People die!