A Strange Story

When I died on Berners Street
I remember well
That I had lights at head and feet
And a passing bell.
But when I died in Houndsditch
There came to lay me out
A washerwoman and a witch;
The rats ran about.
When I died in Holborn
In an old house and tall
I know the tapestry was torn
And hanging from the wall.
When I died in Marylebone
I was saying my prayers;
there I died all alone
Up four flights of stairs.
But when I died near Lincoln’s Inn
The small gold I had
Surrounded me with kith and kin
I died stark mad.
When I died in Bloomsbury
In the bend of your arm
At the end I died merry
And comforted and warm.

by Elinor Wylie