He came in silvern armour, trimmed with black— A lover come from legends long ago— With silver spurs and silken plumes a-blow, And flashing sword caught fast and buckled back In a carven sheath of Tamarack. He came with footsteps beautifully slow, And spoke in voice meticulously low. He came and Romance followed in his track... I did not ask his name—I thought him Love; I did not care to see his hidden face. All life seemed born in my intaken breath; All thought seemed flown like some forgotten dove. He bent to kiss and raised his visor's lace... All eager-lipped I kissed the mouth of Death.
1 Brushes and paints are all I have To speak the music in my soul— While silently there laughs at me A copper jar beside a pale green bowl. 2 How strange that grass should sing— Grass is so still a thing ... And strange the swift surprise of snow So soft it falls and slow.