Wallace Stevens - Cortège for Rosenbloom lyrics

Now, the wry Rosenbloom is dead
And his finical carriers tread
On a hundred legs, the tread of the dead
Rosenbloom is dead

They carry the wizened one
Of the color of horn to the sullen hill
Treading a tread in unison for the dead

Rosenbloom is dead
The tread of the carriers does not halt
On the hill, but turns up the sky
They are bearing his body into the sky

It is the infants of misanthropes
And the infants of nothingness that trеad
The wooden ascents
Of thе ascending of the dead

It is turbans they wear and boots of fur
As they tread the boards
In a region of frost, viewing the frost

To a chirr of gongs and a chitter of cries
And the heavy thrum of the endless tread
That they tread

To a jangle of doom and a jumble of words
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