I Seem To Myself, As

I Go Forth To Seek To Seek And Claim The Lovely Magic Garden Where Grasses Softly Sigh And Muses Speak.

You Will Hear Thunder And Remember Me, And Think: She Wanted Storms. The Rim Of The Sky Will Be The Colour Of Hard Crimson, And Your Heart, As It Was Then, Will Be On Fire.

A Loss, But Who Still Mourns The Breath Of One Woman, Or Laments One Wife? Though My Heart Never Can Forget, How, For One Look, She Gave Up Her Life.

We Aged A Hundred Years, And This Happened In A Single Hour: The Short Summer Had Already Died, The Body Of The Ploughed Plains Smoked.

I Should Be Proud To Have My Memory Graced, But Only If The Monument Be Placed... Here, Where I Endured Three Hundred Hours In Line Before The Implacable Iron Bars.