Who ever comes to shroud me, do not harm Nor question much That subtle wreth of hair, which crowns my arm; The mystery, the sign you must not touch, For 'tis my outward soul, Viceroy to that, which then to heaven being gone, Will leave this to control, And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.

To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend, All is the purlieu of the god of love.

A bracelet of bright hair about the bone.

I long to talk with some old lover's ghost, Who died before the god of love was born.

Ye come and go incessant; we remain Safe in the hallowed quiets of the past; Be reverent, ye who flit and are forgot, Of faith so nobly realized as this.

Always remember the last words of my grandfather, who said: 'A truck!'

Another old friend gone!