And could not see the skies.

As a beast that turns and returns to a mirror

And will not see its face,

Her eyes rejected the sunset,

Her soul lay dead in its place,

Dead in the furrows and folds of her flesh

As a corpse lies lapped in the shroud;

Silently floated beside her

The isles of sunset-cloud.

What had ye done to her, years upon years,

That her head should be bowed down thus—

Thus for your golden vespers,

And deepening angelus?

Her nails were blackened and split with labour,

Her back was heavily bowed;

Silently floated beside her

The isles of sunset-cloud.

Over their tapering streaks of lilac,

In breathless depths afar,

Bright as the tear of an angel

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