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

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

I see the lost Love in beauty Go gliding over the main: I feel the ancient sweetness, The worm and the wormwood again.

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