rhythms for bears

The pretty stuff you’re made of

Will crack and crease and dry.

The thing you are afraid of

Will look from every eye.

You will go faltering after

The bright, imperious line,

And split your throat on laughter,

And burn your eyes with brine.

You will be frail and musty

With peering, furtive head,

Whilst I am young and lusty

Among the roaring dead.

(via deepseathoughts)