The Dead Man Walking

They hail me as one living, 
But don't they know 
That I have died of late years, 
Untombed although? 

I am but a shape that stands here, 
A pulseless mould, 
A pale past picture, screening 
Ashes gone cold. 

Not at a minute's warning, 
Not in a loud hour, 
For me ceased Time's enchantments 
In hall and bower. 

There was no tragic transit, 
No catch of breath, 
When silent seasons inched me 
On to this death. ... 

— A Troubadour-youth I rambled 
With Life for lyre, 
The beats of being raging 
In me like fire. 

But when I practised eyeing 
The goal of men, 
It iced me, and I perished 
A little then. 

When passed my friend, my kinsfolk, 
Through the Last Door, 
And left me standing bleakly, 
I died yet more; 

And when my Love's heart kindled 
In hate of me, 
Wherefore I knew not, died I 
One more degree. 

And if when I died fully 
I cannot say, 
And changed into the corpse-thing 
I am to-day; 

Yet is it that, though whiling 
The time somehow 
In walking, talking, smiling, 
I live not now.