Shapes of Clay

I lay in silence, dead. A woman came

And laid a rose upon my breast and said:

"May God be merciful." She spoke my name,

And added: "It is strange to think him dead.

"He loved me well enough, but 't was his way

To speak it lightly." Then, beneath her breath:

"Besides"—I knew what further she would say,

But then a footfall broke my dream of death.

To-day the words are mine. I lay the rose

Upon her breast, and speak her name and deem

It strange indeed that she is dead. God knows

I had more pleasure in the other dream.