At Her Death
Sorrow like the horses hooves in me pound
Galloping on the soft white brain, trampling
The fluttering feathers of memory.
And behind the horses the hellish hound
And she before them walked without trembling
Weaving for me a mail of history.
The bird though wounded willingly flies still
Through heavy woods where ashes paled the sky
In slanting rain she stumbles up the hill
To find the fickle sun and cubbard dry.
And I now walking where her steps has been
Amid the howling wind of her sagelike words
Pine and pine but shall not behold again
Her form where memories are the wounded birds
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