sad poetry

still her gray rocks tower above the sea
though i am little as all little things
i had a dream and i awoke with it
let us pity those who are better off than we are
daughter, thou art come to die
stuff of the moon
why are the things that have no death
darkest, strangest mystery
very well, you liberals
woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me
two rows of cabbages
in all things not spoken of
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
one with you