There is a chill deeper than that of death,
In the return of the beloved and not of love.
And there is no warmth for it
But the warmth of a world which needs more than the sun —
Or the warmth of lament for beauty,
Which is graven on many stones.

And yet I would be with you a little while,
Dear ghost.
I will endure even the marsh-mist on my throat
And the fingers of the moon.