Poets, we know, are terribly sensitive people, and in my observation one of the things they are most sensitive about is money.
The poem is a little myth of man's capacity of making life meaningful.
Dying--shucks! If you kin handle the living, what's to be afraid of the dying?
Reality is not a function of the event as event, but of the relationship of that event to past, and future, events.
...a man does not die for words. He dies for his relation to them.
It is human defect — to try to know oneself by the self of another.