sympathy poem

dear wife
wheel me down by the meadow
made up of loveliness alone
how like the stars are these white, nameless faces
that year
out of me unworthy and unknown
though i am little as all little things
lo! 'tis a gala night
in their ragged regimentals
the earth keeps some vibration going
winged shadows sweeping by
the sky
last midnight
the pale day drowses on the western steep