(For Alain Loch)

Dead men are wisest, for they know
 How far the roots of flowers go,
 How long a seed must rot to grow.

Dead men alone bear frost and rain
 On throbless heart and heatless brain,
 And feel no stir of joy or pain.

Dead men alone are satiate;
 They sleep and dream and have no weight,
 To curb their rest, of love or hate.

Strange, men should flee their company,
 Or think me strange who long to be
 Wrapped in their cool immunity.