Aloes And Myrrh

Dead, with the dew on your brow, Dead, with the may in your face, Dead: and here, true to my vow, I, who have won in the race, Weave you a chaplet of song Wet with the spray and the rime Blown from your love that was strong-- Stronger than Time.

August it was, and the sun Streamed through the pines of the west; There were two then--there is one; Flown is the bird from the nest; And it is August again, But, from this uttermost sea, Rises the mist of my pain-- You are set free.

"Tell him I see the tall pines, Out through the door as I lie-- Red where the setting sun shines-- Waving their hands in good-bye; Tell him I hold to my breast, Dying, the flowers he gave; Glad as I go I shall rest Well in my grave."

This is the message they send, Warm with your ultimate breath; Saying, "And this is the end; She is the bride but of death." Is death the worst of all things? What but a bursting of bands, Then to the First of All Things Stretching out hands!

Under the grass and the snow You will sleep well till I come; And you will feel me, I know, Though you are motionless, dumb. I shall speak low overhead-- You were so eager to hear-- And even though you are dead, You will be near.

Dead, with the dew on your brow, Dead, with the May in your face, Dead: and here, true to my vow, I, who have won in the race, Weave you a chaplet of song Wet with the spray and the rime Blown from your love that was strong-- Stronger than Time.