And It Seemed To Me That There

You Will Hear Thunder And Remember Me, And Think: She Wanted Storms.

All Has Been Looted, Betrayed, Sold; Black Death's Wing Flashed Ahead.

Flowers, Cold From The Dew, And Autumn's Approaching Breath, I Pluck For The Warm, Luxuriant Braids, Which Haven't Faded Yet. In Their Nights, Fragrantly Resinous, Entwined With Delightful Mystery, They Will Breathe In Her Springlike Extraordinary Beauty. But In A Whirlwind Of Sound And Fire, From Her Shing Head They Will Flutter And Fall—and Before Her They Will Die, Faintly Fragrant Still. And, Impelled By Faithful Longing, My Obedient Gaze Will Feast Upon Them— With A Reverent Hand, Love Will Gather Their Rotting Remains.

That Was When The Ones Who Smiled Were The Dead, Glad To Be At Rest.

I Seem To Myself, As In A Dream, Am Accidental Guest In This Dreadful Body.