I cannot tell you what it is waits beyond love;
Nor what it means, the still hour after. I can think only of a wide field of poppies afire
On driven stems, dashed in the gale. I cannot touch you now.
I lie beside you chill. My heart has waned cold.
A high white mountain has breathed upon my heart. Let us gather out of our thoughts a poppy cloak
To draw about this strangeness. I cannot tell you what it is waits beyond love;
Nor what it means, the still hour after.