But me They cannot touch, Old age and death. .the strange And ignominious end of old Dead folk!

Dost thou Not feel them slip, How cold! how cold! the moon’s Thin wavering finger-tips, along Thy throat?

In your Curled petals what ghosts Of blue headlands and seas, What perfumed immortal breath sigh… Of Greece.

How can you lie so still? All day… And never a blade of all the green… To show where restlessly you toss… And fling a desperate arm or draw… Stiffened and aching from their lo…

The sun is warm today, O Romulus, and on Thine older Palentine the birds Still sing.

Thou beautiful and ivory gates That shut my tears away from me - Even, at last, such refuge yield That great, safe doors of Ebony.

I have no heart for noon-tide and… But I will take me where more ten… Shakes, fold on fold, her dewy dar… And shelters me that I may weep i… And feel no pitying eyes, and hear…

Lo, how they weave– the imperturba… Those threads that are my destiny: Steadily at the eternal task they’… Industrious . . . indifferent . .… Weave, Fates! And what your spins…

Well and If day on day Follows and weary year On year . . . and ever days and ye… Well?

Wouldst thou find my ashes? Look In the pages of my book; And as these thy hand doth turn, Know here is my funeral urn.

Guardian Of The Treasure Of Sol… And Keeper Of the Prophet’s Armo… My tent A vapour that The wind dispels and but

If it Were lighter touch Than petal of flower resting On grass, oh still too heavy it we… Too heavy!

In a cave born (Mary said) In a cave is My Son buried

Nor stars . . the dark . . and in The dark the grey Ghost glimmer of the olive trees The black straight rows Of Cypresses.

Grey gaolers are my griefs That will not let me free; The bitterness of tears Is warder unto me. I may not leap or run;