When I am dead and sister to the dust;
— When no more avidly I drink the wine
— Of human love; when the pale Proserpine
Has covered me with poppies, and cold rust
Has cut my lyre-strings, and the sun has thrust
— Me underground to nourish the world-vine,
— Men shall discover these old songs of mine,
And say: This woman lived — as poets must!
This woman lived and wore life as a sword
— To conquer wisdom; this dead woman read
In the sealed Book of Love and underscored
— The meanings. Then the sails of faith she spread,
And faring out for regions unexplored,
— Went singing down the River of the Dead.