short poem

once this soft turf
short and sweet, and we've come to the end of it
why are the things that have no death
you say you love me
simply speaking
high-born race
within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
perhaps it is no matter that you died
as i lie roofed in, screened in
she might have known it in the earlier spring
as it
hang no wreath
it was the autumn of the year
sleep, gray brother of death