The taste of honey

by Edna Worthley Underwood

Held between the snowy marble

Of the pale, dim plain of death.

’Twas the chill of things sepulchral, ’twas the ancient chill of death,

’Twas the chill of nothingness,

And my shadow,

From the moon’s pale light out-floating,

Walked there lonely,

Walked there lonely,

Lonely walked the pale plain o’er,

And your shadow grown more lovely,