Small Death to Laugh

Away, airy comber of comets!
The grass in the wind will be your hair;
From your gaping eyes will-o' -wisps
Will rise, prisoners in the poor heads ...

Graveyard flowers called Little Flirts
Will overgrow your earthy laugh . . .
And forget-me-nots, those Bowers of dungeons forgot ...

Make light of it: poets' coffins
Are but toys to pallbearers,
Violin cases with an empty sound ...
They'll think you're dead-the bourgeois are dull--
Away, airy comber of comets!