Still your voice in asking where I speak from
What skies are here, is not for you to know.
What depths below, and what the kingdom
That bids me lay this rose upon your woe?
Your fallen tresses' gentleness of rose-gold
The ash a mourner scattered on your shroud.
These ivory lips, jewel-houses weeping sold
Unto Her, Whose scythe shines darkly proud.
And even in your cradle, you were weeping
A woman's passion bound with baby's cry.
Father's hoary head, and Mother sleeping,
A candle to kill moths, and a Bible to deny.
And Youth had not a garland to beguile you,
And the clouds had not a single drop of rain.
Your tears fell, and mistaking them for dew
You sprouted, blossomed in the soil of pain.
You sang where every voice was screaming,
You danced, obscured by cruel electric light.
You may forget how you fell into dreaming
Still you rose, and in your heart the fight...
And on this whitest altar you fell daunted
The worm he smiled, and laid disease's pall
On the heart unloved and shadow-haunted,
Your feathers fell, and Winter smothered all.
So take this hand and wander into stillness
For there, we know, the great is not in vain.
There we wait to wash your wings of illness,
For She has come to reap Her tainted grain.