The world is too much with us,
and in death that world contracts,
like a fun house suddenly
divested of its mirrors.

Our embarrassment stretches
with each contraction,
longing (in our smallness)
for the unmanageable din which is
more manageable
than this haranguing silence,
wishing (in our largeness)
for a place

where the sound
of our weeping does not echo
ungracefully in an infinite room.