Let the children play And sit like flowers upon thy grave And crown with flowers,-that hardly have A briefer blooming-tide than they.

Time's corrosive dewdrop eats The giant warrior to a crust Of earth in earth and rust in rust.

Sleep puts out silent fingers, And leads me back to the roar Of the dead salt sea that vomits Wrecks of the past ashore.

In the season of white wild roses We two went hand in hand: But now in the ruddy autumn Together already we stand.