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.
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