family poem

the long resounding marble corridors
now that i have cooled to you
i know not where
i make my shroud, but no one knows
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
there were three in the meadow by the brook
passing through huddled and ugly walls
they may talk of love in a cottage
she said
over the river, on the hill
when the veil from the eyes is lifted
within this lowly grave a conqueror lies