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

Not thou, White rose, but thy Ensanguined sister is The dear companion of my heart’s Shed blood.

And the centurion who stood by sai… Truly this was a son of God. Not long ago but everywhere I go There is a hill and a black windy… Portent of hill, sky, day’s eclips…

So may you sleep alway, My baby, my dear son: Amen, Amen, Amen. My baby, my dear son.

Art thou Not kin to him Who loved Mark’s wife and both Died for it? O, thou harper in Green woods?

Thou hast Drawn laughter from A well of secret tears And thence so elvish it rings, –mo… And sweet.

As it Were tissue of silver I’ll wear, O Fate, thy grey, And go mistily radiant, clad Like the moon.

Never the nightingale, Oh, my dear, Never again the lark Thou wilt hear; Though dusk and the morning still

Look up . . . From bleakening hills Blows down the light, first breath Of wintry wind . . . look up, and… The snow!

Every day, Every day, Tell the hours By their shadows, By their shadows.

Little Sister Rose-Marie, Will thy feet as willing-light Run through Paradise, I wonder, As they run the blue skies under, Willing feet, so airy-light?

Have yet forgot, sweet birds, How near the heaven’s lie? Drooping, sick-pinion’d, oh Have yet forgot the sky? The air that once I knew

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;

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

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