Friday, 13 March 2009


I must pass on down the way, and on alone. Under the grass
You wait; the breeze moves in the trees, and stirs and calls,
And covers you with white petals, with light petals.
There it shall crumble, frail and fair, under the sun,
O little heart, your brittle heart; till day be done,
And the shadows gather, falling light, and, white with dew,
Whipser, and weep; and creep to you. Good sleep to you!

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