gothic poetry

before the solemn bronze saint
beside a stricken field
in your flight
for these white arms about my neck
therefore i may not
are you alive?
in the cloud-gray mornings
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
let us pity those who are better off than we are
my mother twines me roses wet with dew
the little white prayers
see, from this counterfeit of him
there are gains for all our losses