WHEN BONY DEATH HAS CHILLED HER GENTLE BLOOD.

When bony Death has chilled her gentle blood
    And dimmed the brightness of her wistful eyes,
And stamped her glorious beauty into mud
    By his old skill in hateful wizardies.

When an old lichened marble strives to tell
    How sweet a grace, how red a lip was hers ;
When rheumy gray-beards say, “I knew her well,”
    showing the grave to curious worshippers.

When all the roses that she sowed in me
    Have dripped their crimson petals and decayed
Leaving no greenery on any tree
    That her dear hands in my heart’s garden laid,

Then grant, old Time, to my green mouldering skull
These songs may keep her memory beautiful.

                                                           JOHN MASEFIELD.