CORTEGE FOR ROSENBLOOM by WALLACE STEVENS

Now the wry Rosenbloom is dead
And his finical carriers tread,
Now the wry Rosenbloom is dead
On a hundred legs, the tread
And his finical carriers tread,
Of the dead.
On a hundred legs, the tread
Rosenbloom is dead.
Of the dead.
They carry the wizened one
Rosenbloom is dead.
Of the color of horn

To the sullen hill,
They carry the wizened one
Treading a tread
Of the color of horn
In unison for the dead.
To the sullen hill,
Rosenbloom is dead.
Treading a tread
The tread of the carriers does not halt
In unison for the dead.
On the hill, but turns

Up the sky.
Rosenbloom is dead.
They are bearing his body into the sky.
The tread of the carriers does not halt
It is the infants of misanthropes
On the hill, but turns
And the infants of nothingness
Up the sky.
That tread
They are bearing his body into the sky.
The wooden ascents

Of the ascending of the dead.
It is the infants of misanthropes
It is turbans they wear
And the infants of nothingness
And boots of fur
That tread
As they tread the boards
The wooden ascents
In a region of frost, .
Of the ascending of the dead.
Viewing the frost.

To a chirr of gongs
It is turbans they wear
And a chitter of cries
And boots of fur
And the heavy thrum
As they tread the boards
Of the endless tread
In a region of frost,
That they tread.
Viewing the frost.
To a jabber of doom

And a jumble of words
To a chirr of gongs
Of the intense poem
And a chitter of cries
Of the strictest prose
And the heavy thrum
Of Rosenbloom.
Of the endless tread
And they bury him there,
That they tread.
Body and soul,

In a place in the sky.
To a jabber of doom
The lamentable tread!
And a jumble of words
Rosenbloom is dead
Of the intense poem

Of the strictest prose
Of Rosenbloom.

And they bury him there,
Body and soul,
In a place in the sky.
The lamentable tread!
Rosenbloom is dead.

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