birthday poem

up to her chamber window
do you hear the rain?
she limps with halting painful pace
death's nobility again
in his guarded tent
when i was broke in london
there was a strangeness on your lips
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead
sing again the song you sung
a bird sang
though i am little as all little things
i make my shroud, but no one knows
city that is not a city
he'd even have his joke