SONGS

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.