The Piteous Lady

She had not learnt by heart your face

That death and she be fond:

Death long is quitted of this place

And long is out of mind.

What little gestures of your eyes

Remain to feed this lady

She fondles gladly in her brows

And fondles in her body.

And since the color of your hair

Makes such a difference,

And since she cannot choose but care

Whereoff her thoughts do glance:

This distance is too monstrous should

A single cry be thrust;

This distance is not kind or good

Where waves are moonward lost.