Whispers of Death

I was inspired tonight to make this poetic dialogue (read: mashup) between Whitman and Frost, about Death:

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

(Whispers of Heavenly Death)

Whose woods these are I think I know.

Whispers of heavenly death, murmur’d I hear;   

Labial gossip of night—sibilant chorals;  

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here 

Footsteps gently ascending—mystical breezes, wafted soft and low;  

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

Ripples of unseen rivers—tides of a current, flowing, forever flowing;  
(Or is it the plashing of tears? the measureless waters of human tears?) 

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

I see, just see, skyward, great cloud-masses;  
Mournfully, slowly they roll, silently swelling and mixing;  
With, at times, a half-dimm’d, sadden’d, far-off star,  
Appearing and disappearing.  

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

(Some parturition, rather—some solemn, immortal birth:  
On the frontiers, to eyes impenetrable,  

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

Some Soul is passing over.)

And miles to go before I sleep.