The Dead by Sylvia Plath

heed, Lulled in the ample womb of the full-tilt globe. No spiritual Caesars are these dead; They want no proud paternal kingdom come; And when at last they blunder into bed World-wrecked, they seek only oblivion. Rolled round with goodly loam and cradled deep, These bone shanks will not wake immaculate To trumpet-toppling dawn of doomstruck day: They loll forever in colossal sleep; Nor can God’s stern, shocked angels cry them up From their fond, final, infamous decay. ... "The Dead" "Sylvia ...