Classic Poem

“It is the end?” I said. Slowly he said
“It is the end.”
“Then she who was my beautiful pale friend
Is—dead?”
He turned away his head and shook his head.

The years are laggard cattle; the black years
Emptied of you
No centaur's hoof shall rouse nor all my tears
Quite creep through.
Your lids are locked: there is no more to do.

I cannot take your beauty out of my eyes;
I cannot close
The rumour of my blood though it denies
April and knows
The cold kiss of the shears of Atropos!