Headless, without an arm, a figure leans
By something vaguely Greek,—a fount, an urn;
Dim stairs climb past her where one’s thoughts discern
A temple or a palace. Some great queen’s
Daughter art thou? or humbly one of those
Who serve a queen? Is this the sacred thing
That holds thy child, thy husband, or thy king?
Or lightly-laughing...
-
-
Calm death, God of crossed hands and passionless eyes,
Thou God that never heedest gift nor prayer,
Men blindly call thee cruel, unaware
That everything is dearer since it dies.
Worn by the chain of years, without surprise,
The wise man welcomes thee, and leaves the glare
Of noisy sunshine gladly, and his share
He chose not in mad life...