Bore that which clogged his heart with fear—
A white gown, sown with golden threads
Which held the light as do the meads
When dandelions toss their heads
Mid meadow-sweet and field-clover,
Which poppy-leaves drift red over—
A long white gown and smirched with red,
And hands so still, they must be dead.
They laid her on a grass-grown bank
And loosed about her neck the stole,