After

After

Take the cloak from his face, and at first
Let the corpse do its worst!

How he lies in his rights of a man!
Death has done all death can.
And, absorbed in the new live he leads.
He recks not, he heeds
Nor his wrong nor my vengeance; both strike
On his senses alike,
And are lost in the solemn and strange
Surprise of the change.
Ha, what avails death to erase
His offense, my disgrace?
I would we were boys as of old
In field, by the fold:
His outrage, God's patience, man's scorn
Were so easily borne!

I stand here now, he lies in his place:
Cover the face!

By Robert Browning

Stillborn

(I do not take credit for this image)

Stillborn

These poems do not live, it's a sad diagnosis.
They grew their toes and fingers well enough,
Their little foreheads buldged with concentration.
If they missed out on walking about like people
It wasn't for any lack of mother-love

O I cannot understand what happned to them!
They are proper in shape and number and every part.
They sit so nicely in the pickling fluid!
They smile and smile and smile at me.
And still the lungs won't fill and the heart won't start.

They are not pigs, they are not even fish,
Though they have a piggy and a fishy air-
It would be better if they were alive, and that's what they were.
But they are dead, and their mother nearly dead with distraction,
And they stupidly stare, and do not speak to her.

By Sylvia Plath