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.