When he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.

The night sky is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole---
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.

Put out the light, and then put out the light.

Done to death by slanderous tongues

And make death proud to take us.

Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it.