Poets

And here the hermit sat, and told his beads, And stroked his flowing locks, red as the fire, Summed up his tale of moon and sun and star:

EDITH, the silent stars are coldly gleaming, The night wind moans, the leafless trees are still. Edith, there is a life beyond this seeming,

Lady, there is a hope that all men have, Some mercy for their faults, a grassy place To rest in, and a flower-strewn, gentle grave;