Louise Adèle Carter

I HEARD Death singing.

Lone was the darkening way;

The song was a glad song, ringing

Far, faint and gay;

But pale poppies were clinging

To the feet that went that way.

Gay, faint bugles of Death

Airily blowing;

Poppies of strange, cold breath

Frailly growing;

And around and above and beneath

A faint wind blowing.

A weak wind wearily blowing,

Like a blown winding-sheet,

That wrapped me in its dread flowing

From face to feet;

A wind that seemed as if blowing

Between the earth and my feet.

Far—farther than wonder

Could follow, or dreams,

The sunken sun lay under

The furthest streams;

Far beyond longing or wonder,

Or dreams.

Death’s song like a nightingale’s cry

Through that lone dark,

Pierced it, wildly and high;

And my heart said, Hark!—

’Tis the nightingale’s cry!

Nay, said my soul, the lark!

But poppies impeded my treading;

Sleep and great fear fell upon me—

What dews of what cold shedding

Were these shed upon me?

Behind me no way for treading,

No way beyond me.

And gay, faint bugles of Death

Airily blowing;

Poppies of strange cold breath

Frailly growing;

And around and above and beneath

A faint wind blowing.