As breath may disappear before the mouth,
She died, before the winter could revive
Such images of death; affection’s serfs,
Now exiles, crowded round her feudal bed,
Stiff homage wedded to her simple self;
So everything we wept for was, in weeping, false.
Her pardons were all innocent, unlike
Ourselves, who thought then of being kinder.
She gave forgiveness with no forfeit claimed,
Naming our names with love; not understanding
Even was necessary. They buried her then
Among the tilted stones. The earth possessed her name.
I remember the coffin mechanically drawn
Down from our eyesight, and the flying earth
Impatient for entombment; as it fell,
I knew the paradisal eyes would be
Dust’s liquor and the worm’s advancing will;
I wept, for centuries had gone from me.
The house is empty now. Sea sounds sift in.
If something is not gone, then nothing is.
Collecting sleep, I hear the statues rise;
At midnight up the ruminating stairs
I hear her walking with the quiet tread
Of images that linger and cannot be laid:
I think of years we took to graft the mind,
Of what I will become that she has willed,
Of how her body lies upon the rotting wind.
Such breath was wasted, and such Will will breathe,
For toward her exile all our shadows move
Even in death saying something about love.
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