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…

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

The immemorial grief of all years Burdes my heart sorely, and the ye… Of slow eternal crying stain my ch… Forever and forever my soul speaks Saying: I am thy self: Look on me…

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

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

My songs to sell, sweet maid! I pray you buy. Here’s one will win a lady’s tears… Here’s one will make her gay, Here’s one will charm your true lo…

Seen on a night in November How frail Above the bulk Of crashing water hangs, Autumn, evanescent, wan,

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

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?

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

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;

Pain ebbs, And like cool balm, An opiate weariness Settles on eye-lids, on relaxed Pale wrists.

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

More dim than wining moon Thy face, mort faint Than is the falling wind Thy voice, yet do Thine eyes most strangely glow,

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.