Fall over

I've reached the end of Louis MacNeice's Autumn Journal:

Sleep, the past, and wake, the future,
And walk out promptly through the open door;
But you, my coward doubts, may go on sleeping,
You need not wake again - not any more.

The New Year comes with bombs, it is too late
To dose the dead with honourable intentions.
If you have honour to spare, employ it on the living;
The dead are as dead as Nineteen Thirty-Eight.