Under the damp and under the mould, I kenned my breasts were clammy and cold.
Out from the red beams, slanting and bright, I kenned my cheeks were sunken and white.
I was a dream, and the world was a dream, And yet I kenned all things that seem.
I was a dream, and the world was a dream, But you cannot bury a red sunbeam.
For though in the under-grave’s doom-night I lay all silent and stark and white,
Yet over my head I seemed to know The murmurous moods of wind and snow,
The snows that wasted, the winds that blew, The rays that slanted, the clouds that drew
The water-ghosts up from lakes below, And the little flower-souls in earth that grow.
Under earth, in the grave’s stark night, I felt the stars and the moon’s pale light.
I felt the winds of ocean and land That whispered the blossoms soft and bland.