A Cross-Road Epitaph
"Am Kreuzweg wird begraben
Wer selber brachte sich um."
Am I waking, am I sleeping?
As the first faint dawn comes creeping
Thro' the pane, I am aware
Of an unseen presence hovering,
Since that I may not have
Love on this side the grave,
Let me imagine Love.
Since not mine is the bliss
In A Minor Key
(AN ECHO FROM A LARGER LYRE.)
That was love that I had before
A March Day In London
The east wind blows in the street to-day;
The sky is blue, yet the town looks grey.
'Tis the wind of ice, the wind of fire,
Of cold despair and of hot desire,
Epitaph. (On A Commonplace Person Who Died In Bed)
THIS is the end of him, here he lies:
The dust in his throat, the worm in his eyes,
The mould in his mouth, the turf on his breast;
This is the end of him, this is best.