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Allen Tate - Sonnets Of The Blood III
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Then, brother, you would never think me vain
Or rude, if I should mention dignity;
Think little of it. Dignity`s the stain
Of mortal sin that knows humility.
Let me design the hour when you were born
Since, if that`s vain, it`s only childlike so:
Like an attempting frost on April corn
Considerate death would hardly let you go.
Reckon the cost-if you would validate
Once more our slavery to circumstance
Not by contempt of a prescriptive fate
But in your bearing towards an hour of chance.
It is a part so humble and so proud
You`ll think but little of it in your shroud.
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