Now that the killing is over

Now that the killing is over,
having so long paid court to death,
having so long well performed his demands
we have been rewarded, for death is just—
nothing so just as death—
and for our faithful service
he now stands by our side.

Gowned, inconspicuous in the Senior Common Room,
nor noticeable in the public bar in overalls:
the bus conductor, the sleeping-car attendant
(ever present in the night-time) and in the cathedral,
the verger a little too anxious to show us the tombs.

He will see to it that the laugh runs thin,
rings hollow: his the anxious solicitude
that we should always feel the aching fear,
nor know the comfort of confidence, nor even of hope,
but only bitter weariness in a world
where once we elected him as absolute ruler.

We cannot then complain
of a taste of dust, or cobwebs felt on the face

or the chill between us and the fire

or the unbright sunshine: the waking before dawn
as the spirit ebbs, leaving bare the lone drear mud-flats
with the weed-gripped wrecks that were once our bravest hopes,
now seen in the ultimate, passionless mood of despair—
an exact cold knowledge of hell.

We should come to terms with death, each for himself—
there have been death's own equals—Beddoes, he
met death at dissecting, asked him home to dine
and met some Elizabethan whom he knew
in a high attic of old Heidelberg
where guest soon turned to tenant:
and though in wine his host would crack rare jests
nudging his fleshless ribs, or would cajole
and stroke the unresponsive bony hand,
he knew he'd picked a partner for a dance
quick-stepping down to Doomsday. And Dunbar
who saw death striding black and huge and grim
against the livid sunset of his times,
shadowing the landscape: he tried no compromise
but stated his defence in ruthless Scots
and flung him scraps of Latin—old gnarled bones to the dog,
bits of a greater world, fragments of Christendom,
last links with far Mediterranean civilities.

But we have made the weakest compromise
accepted death-in-life, as if diluting
the poison in our blood we might grow old
like Mithridates; sick, yet still alive,
all vigour lost, our heritage yielded up
to death and the mediocre demagogue.
And then our end—delayed, inevitable,
drab, mean—the spiritual paupers' graves
are ready dug, the shoddy coffins wait
to take us from the workhouse.

Where the sting
what is the victory now? Death is deprived
even of his jest—we have been dead so long.

Winter 1946-Summer 1947