Whispers of Immortality

  by T. S. Eliot

Webster was much possessed by death 
And saw the skull beneath the skin; 
And breastless creatures under ground 
Leaned backward with a lipless grin. 
 
Daffodil bulbs instead of balls
Stared from the sockets of the eyes! 
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs 
Tightening its lusts and luxuries. 
 
Donne, I suppose, was such another 
Who found no substitute for sense;
To seize and clutch and penetrate, 
Expert beyond experience, 
 
He knew the anguish of the marrow 
The ague of the skeleton; 
No contact possible to flesh
Allayed the fever of the bone.

.    .    .    .    .    .    .    .

Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye 
Is underlined for emphasis; 
Uncorseted, her friendly bust 
Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.
 
The couched Brazilian jaguar 
Compels the scampering marmoset 
With subtle effluence of cat; 
Grishkin has a maisonette; 
 
The sleek Brazilian jaguar
Does not in its arboreal gloom 
Distil so rank a feline smell 
As Grishkin in a drawing-room. 
 
And even the Abstract Entities 
Circumambulate her charm;
But our lot crawls between dry ribs 
To keep our metaphysics warm.

 Source: Poets.org