Last night returning from my twilight walk
I met the grey mist Death, whose eyeless brow
Was bent on me, and from his hand of chalk
He reached me flowers as from a withered bough:
O Death, what bitter nosegays givest thou!
Death said, I gather, and pursued his way.
Another stood by me, a shape in stone,
Sword—hacked and iron—stained, with breasts of clay,
And metal veins that sometimes fiery shone:
O Life, how naked and how hard when known!
Life said, As thou hast carved me, such am I.
Then memory, like the nightjar on the pine,
And sightless hope, a woodlark in night sky,
Joined notes of Death and Life till night’s decline
Of Death, of Life, those inwound notes are mine.