An End

A few words to begin

Love, strong as Death, is dead. Come, let us make his bed Among the dying flowers: A green turf at his head; And a stone at his feet, Whereon we may sit In the quiet evening hours. He was born in the Spring, And died before the harvesting: On the last warm summer day He left us; he would not stay For autumn twilight, cold and gray. Sit we by his grave, and sing He is gone away.