To the heart, to the heart the white petals Quietly fall. Memory is a little wind, and magical The dreaming hours. As a breath they fall, as a sigh; Green garden hours too langorous to waken,...
This cool quiet of trees In the grey dusk of the north, In the green half-dusk of the west, Where fires still glow; These glimmering fantasies Of foliage branching forth And drooping into rest;...
Brown earth, sun-soaked, Beneath his head And over the quiet limbs.... Through time unreckoned Lay this brown earth for him. Now is he come. Truly he hath a sweet bed.