death poem

the pale day drowses on the western steep
who will be naming the wind
we break the glass whose sacred wine
how like the stars are these white, nameless faces
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
thou unrelenting past
my mother taught me that every night
from song and dream for ever gone
last night the full moon laid a cloth of white
night is dark, and the winter winds
but i cannot read you now