death poetry

be in me as the eternal moods
in your arms was still delight
rising moon has hid the stars
a thin gray shadow on the edge of thought
by the shore, by the sea
which keeps
passing through huddled and ugly walls
days endeared to every muse
often i think of the beautiful town
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies