[Pg 17]

Where never comes the breath

“This is the gate of Death.

In weariness alway:

At eventide for day.

Till life be cold and gray?

In some still cavern deep,

The eyes forget to weep:

Who prayeth but to sleep!”

[Pg 18]

Like mourner for the dead,

The tree-tops overhead:

I turned myself and fled!

Soft fell the dying ray

That rested from their play—

Come back to me to-day.

Together wandered down

[Pg 19]

The ripples of the brown:

About a monarch’s crown.

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