Hush, lullay.
Your treasures all
Encrust with rust,
Your trinket pleasures fall
        To dust.

Beneath the sapphire arch,
Upon the grassy floor,
Is nothing more
            To hold,
And play is over-old.
Your eyes
            In sleepy fever gleam,
Their lids droop
            To their dream.
You wander late alone,
The flesh frets on the bone,
Your love fails in your breast,
Here is the pillow.


Reproduced with permission of literary executrix Dr. Judith Farr.