Where their souls, his faithful vassals, rest at last, from the past.
[DEAR DEAD WOMEN]
The winds have chilled the loving odorous South,
All wan and grey she seeks a place to die,
Her tossing hair, her pleading passionate mouth,
Pity that things so fair in death must lie;
But Winter holds and kills her with a sigh.
One kiss he lays upon her lips so proud,
Shuts the blue eyes and winds her sombre shroud.
I walk between the narrow way of yew.