As the poor end of each dead day drew near
he tried to count the things which he held dear.
No Rupert Brooke and no great lover, he
Remembered little of simplicity:
his soul had never been empty of fear
and he would sell it thrice now for a tarot of beer.
He seemed to have known no love, to have valued dread
above all human feelings. He liked the dead.
The grass was not green nor even grass to him;
nor was sun, sun; rose, rose; smoke, smoke; limb, limb.
from The Oxford Book of Twentieth-Century English Verse (1973) (p. 399)