Laura Riding Jackson

Do not deny, do not deny
thing out of thing.
Do not deny in the new vanity
the old, original dust.

From what grave, what past
of flesh and bone
dreaming, dreaming I lie
under the fortunate curse,
bewitched, alive,
forgetting the first stuff.
Death does not give a moment

to remember in
lest, like a statue's too
transmuted stone,
I grain by grain recall
the original dust
and looking down a stair of memory
keep saying
This was never I.