To Violet

with prewar poems

These tracings from a world that's dead

Take for my dust-smothered Pyramid.

Count the sharp study and long toil

As pavements laid for worms to soil.

You, without knowing it, might tread

The grass where my foundation's laid;

Your, or another's, house be built

Where my mossed, weathered stones lie spilt;

And this unread memento be

The only lasting part of me.