THE Dead T HINKER

I N the slow silenThearse
He takes his way
Home to the Universe.

AGE AND D EATH

M Y fire has burnt so low
That he who knocks
Is not a guest, I trow!

BY One J UST D EAD

T HOUGH but an hour has sped
He is as dumb
As one ten aeons dead.

AT N IGHT

The wind seems like a prayer
Of earth to God,
Unanswered everywhere.

S CRIPT

N O word the wild geese cry,
But only write
In silence on the sky.

The L IGHTNING

The lightning seems a tongue,
Mad with the heat,
That summer has outflung.

K INDRED

The butterfly and flower
Surely were made
By earth in the same hour.

LOVE Letters RETURNED IN S PRING

H OW many petals fall!
Yet in my heart
They once were growing all!

THE F AITHLESS

A CHURCH-BELL in the dawn
But, like the dead,
I too — alas! — sleep on.

AUTUMN S ADNESS

From grief no hope could numb —
All the world's grief —
Does Autumn sadness come.