The dead can’t feel the warm wind from the south,
Across the skin that shivers not, yet feels
And sends a pleasant message to the mouth,
About the lovely time of year which then reveals
The shallow mind belonging to our flesh.
And yet how terrible to know no more
The warm wind on us, or the cold and fresh,
Then hear the mindless comments of each pore
Or follicle responding to the air,
By pouring out a little salty sweat
Or rising up and bristling a hair.
If we could know when we were dead, regret,
I think we might express it all together
In philosophical discussion of the weather.
