missing you poem

over the river, on the hill
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead
for these white arms about my neck
high-born race
the stars fell from heaven
i burn no incense
hang no wreath
under dusky laurel leaf
now while my lips are living
i shake my hair in the wind of morning
sun and wind and beat of sea
uplifting, as the wind blew
there was never a sound beside the wood but one