And cold upon my lips--yea, cold as death;
Yet, through the gloom, she gazes on me now,
As in our early-wedded days; her breath
Is warm once more upon my withered cheek.
O gaunt, grey lips, that strive but may not speak;
O cold, grey eyes, that flicker in the gloam--
Long have we strayed; come, let us wander home!
ARLO: Like lit September woodlands, streameth down
Her hair, beneath the circle of her crown;
Of rarer, redder glory than the cold