English poetry

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What care the Dead, for Chanticleer

What care the Dead, for Chanticleer

What care the Dead, for Chanticleer
What care the Dead for Day?
‘Tis late your Sunrise vex their face
And Purple Ribaldry of Morning

Pour as blank on them
As on the Tier of Wall
The Mason builded, yesterday,
And equally as cool

What care the Dead for Summer?
The Solstice had no Sun
Could waste the Snow before their Gate
And knew One Bird a Tune

Could thrill their Mortised Ear
Of all the Birds that be
This One beloved of Mankind
Henceforward cherished be

What care the Dead for Winter?
Themselves as easy freeze
June Noon as January Night
As soon the South her Breeze

Of Sycamore or Cinnamon
Deposit in a Stone
And put a Stone to keep it Warm
Give Spices unto Men



Poem What care the Dead, for Chanticleer - Emily Dickinson