Dirge for Aoine and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

She was the lightest woman in the land;
The homeless thistledown into your hand
You might charm sooner, or the wild fire thrall,
Than bring her wandering fancy to your call.

Some few possessed her: many more desired
To keep and tame her, but no man grew tired
Of this slight thing, more swift to come and go
Than a bird's shadow flickering on the snow.

Her body's flower died, her soul went out.
Poor little gilded taper, blown about
By the great wind of Death, you were but meant
To light some little room o'erbrimmed with scent.

Poor rose, whose last red leaves drop slowly down,
Not to smell sweet again in wreath or crown—
Mimosa, touched and killed by careless hands,
God speed your scared soul in those lightless lands!