funeral poem

little gate was reached at last
long ago, in the young moonlight
when the hours of day are numbered
when i go back to earth
why do
when, full of warm and eager love
we who stood
to be able to see every side of every question
be patient, life, when love is at the gate
come down at dawn from windless hills
love me at last, or if you will not
by the rude bridge
passing through huddled and ugly walls
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise