Please help me find the poet--and his or her other poety--of this poem
which appeared in The New Yorker some years ago.

It's half-past eleven, the clock's set for seven,
The cat's in the kitchen, the dog has his bone.
Lie down beside me, comfort and guide me,
For dead men are moving from under the stone.

Lie down beside me, comfort and guide me,
The orchestra's playing the end of a tune,
And big bells are ringing and big birds are singing
And horsemen are riding from under the moon.

Now is the season of bitter unreason,
The rose at the window and death at the door.
Lie down beside me, comfort and guide me,
We're nearer to heaven than ever before.

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Request for Question Clarification by markj-ga on 05 May 2005 03:26 PDT

mendy9 --

Roughly how many years ago do you estimate that the poem appeared in
the New Yorker -- five years? 10 years? 20?

markj-ga

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Clarification of Question by mendy9-ga on 05 May 2005 18:29 PDT

It could have been 20 or more.  Thanks for trying, Markj-ga.

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Request for Question Clarification by justaskscott-ga on 05 May 2005 18:42 PDT

Do you recall anything else about the issue in which you read this
poem, or about the author?

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Clarification of Question by mendy9-ga on 06 May 2005 05:25 PDT

My apolkogies, I remember nothing else about the poem, except that
appeared maybe 20 years ago in The New Yorker.  Thanks for trying.