I

On the White Road

There's a white, white road lies under the swinging moon, Stretched from the black of the deep to the black of the deep, And midway the graveyard lies, with its leaves a-croon, The only sound of the world, like a dream in sleep.

There's a white, white grave lies under the graveyard trees, Hung on the road as a single pearl on a thread, And silence waits, beast crouched, on the rim of the breeze, That moans where the only man in the world lies dead.