modern poetry

softly now the light of day
above them all, looking down
death's nobility again
woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me
into the silent land
the pale day drowses on the western steep
they ask me where i've been
sleep sweetly in your humble graves
along a river-side
before the solemn bronze saint
daughter, thou art come to die
when freedom from her mountain height
roses and gold