breath,
Desperate lest the unseen hand of Death
Should touch you, still you e'er I was aware,
Leaving me nothing save your golden hair
And the wide doors of an abandoned place,
And the wise smiling of your quiet face—
The perishable chalice of your grace.
"'In Heaven they all are serious,' so you said
In your delirium. You shake your head,
Denying what I surely heard you say.