poem for pastors

in all things not spoken of
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
a flying word from here and there
i saw the first pear
that year
if i should die, think only this of me
evidenced in the glimmer in your eyes
you say you love me
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale
the snow whispers about me
sleep, gray brother of death
under dusky laurel leaf
death's nobility again
though love repine, and reason chafe