My Voice Not Being Proud

My voice, not being proud Like a strong woman’s, that cries Imperiously aloud That death disarm her, lull her— Screams for no mourning color Laid menacingly, like fire, Over my long desire. It will end, and leave no print. As you lie, I shall lie: Separate, eased, and cured. Whatever is wasted or wanted In this country of glass and flint Some garden will use, once planted. As you lie alone, I shall lie, O, in singleness assured, Deafened by mire and lime. I remember, while there is time.