i like

to think that on

the flower you gave me when we

loved

the far-

departed mouth sweetly-saluted

lingers.

if one marvel

seeing the hunger of my

lips for a dead thing,

i shall instruct

him silently with becoming

steps to seek

your face        and i

entreat, by certain foolish perfect

hours

dead too,

if that he come receive

him as your lover sumptuously

being

kind

because i trust him to

your grace, and for

in his own land

he is called death.