mother poem

daughter, thou art come to die
when night drifts along the streets of the city
i said, i have shut my heart
out of the window a sea of green trees
she must go back, she said
a pen of steel
made up of loveliness alone
before the solemn bronze saint
the hypocritic days
she limps with halting painful pace
here lies a most beautiful lady
if i should die, think only this of me
who is the runner in the skies