The thorn in Rilke’s finger,
The boil on Scriabin’s lip,
Were enough to wrest the singer
From his musicianship.

 

Airiest Isadora
Gave up her dancing breath
When motoring she wore a
Red scarf that caught on death.

 

Small things speed our departure:
A scarf, a boil, a thorn;
But were they any larger,
The things by which we are born?