It is the box from which no jack will spring.

Now close the box, but not until she kisses

The crossed, large hands which she already misses

For their caress, and on his hands the ring.

Now close the box, if we close anything.

She sees the wooden lid, and she dismisses

At least a hundred thoughtful artifices

That would enjoy the tears that they would bring.

The coffin does not matter. It was one

Like many in the row from which she chose it.

Now to be closed in it, he must become

Like all the other dead men, deaf and dumb,

Blank to the small particulars that stun

Her mind all day. Black men, now come and close it.