White in the anguish of their desolate acres, the yardstones of the dead shine on the land like everlasting breakers; and the sunlight flickers over the willow of the angel's head to the tin wreaths and the gilding and the sad memory of flowers enfolding bone and bronze and bed. Over the natural dust of man's dishonour, small calvaries of the grave, angel and crucifix mourned alike with mourner later or sooner hang towards darkness like a powerless wave. Living and faith and hoping: empty, deferred, and crowned with thorns of weeping, themselves they cannot save. Six feet dark in the earth's organ-breathing, all waves abate: glory and lack and the cut grin of loathing lie down and wait for nothing, and grow so small they do not know they wait. Sudden and long is the mourning for the prodigal of love returning: he returns too late.


Gold hearts of sunlight on the Thames repeat the stone and filigree, keep Gaudy for their death in flames the many-backed and blazing sea; gardens of silences bequeath their coloured carillons to the air: and summer is a painted wreath above an infinite despair. Dance heart and flower while you may; the earth you spread gallanted once: much has been paid and is to pay for generations of the dance. A garden is a widowed grief and every grief a vase of bells and every bell a human life and every life a wave that falls.


When funeral ink is faded; when grief comes like bills; and when the brave imperfect flesh, its beauty gone, grows dry and little in the grave: Will one pathetic bone beneath its dumb and windless cloak of lead believe that death is always death, and know the pity of the dead? What leman in your linen form will shiver at the hunter's foot? What lover's hollow in the arm be full again where you are not? The thoughts you thought eternal, and your bodies' endless reckless need, are a scar in wasted ground, and know the pity of the dead. Because we set our joy behind a bastion of delights and vows, now there are days of naked wind and comfort failing in no house. The common smile, the ticking phrase so often sad so often said, sign you like portraits: leave us these, and know the pity of the dead.