“Moriturus” is latin for “about to die” – rather than compare this state vaguely to seasons or other metaphors, Millay describes it in a way that is startling real, giving shape to our fears. Confined to a chair and spooned our food? How did we get here? I-III, IV-VI, VII-IX, X-XII, XIII-XV, XVI-XVIII, XIX-XXI, XXII-XXIV, and most recently, XXV-XXVII. The whole poem can be found here. Drawing (marker on paper) and composition by me.