I rehearse myself for this:
The stand at the stretch in the face of death,
Beyond my own echo,
On one side of silence there is no smile;
But when I breathe with the birds,
The spirit of wrath becomes the spirit of blessing,
And the dead begin from their dark to sing in my sleep.
Compare this two passages in Wright (There are others). The end of the despairing 'Inscription for the Tank:'
Let the dead bury their own dead.
What is their pity to me?
And to lines from "Names in Monterchi: To Rachel," which includes another dangerous ride:
We mounted the true frightening
Mountains, and there
The slim us driver, the messenger
Set us down and said,
Go find her.
In the little graveyard there,
We are buried, Rachel, Anie, Leopoldo, Marxhall,
The spider, the dust, the brilliant, the wind.
In both, there is adrive to meet the dead and a meeting with them.