There she not lies under the lilacs as once she lay
In sun-dazed afternoons of his loins sweet sowing,
And in evening fragrance of his dilly-my-darling days,
Counting his days by summer rains
And nights by moments love has lain,
Each, as God said, in joy a thousand,
In grief, a petal dropped in the dust.
She lies now on a wind-swept hill,
Land-locked, riveted down with stone
On which, days and nights, he leans
Till the surge of sorrow rends his heart,
So bends him, his tombstone knowledge,
Staggers him home
To the cold meal kitchen
Where he eats alone.