POEM: THE DEATH OF AGNES

Now that the sunlight dies in my eyes,

And the moonlight grows in my hair,

I who was never very wise,

Never was very fair,

Virgin and martyr all my life,

What has life left to give

Me — who was never mother nor wife,

Never got leave to live?

Nothing of life could I clasp or claim,

Nothing could steal or save.

So when you come to carve my name,

Give me life in my grave.

To keep me warm when I sleep alone

A lie is little to give;

Call me “Magdalen” on my stone,

Though I died and did not live.