sorry poem

my son is dead and i am going blind
i know not where
there is a country full of wine
the pale day drowses on the western steep
into the silent land
moonlight deep and tender
in the dark and peace of my final bed
to some the fat gods
and how could you dream of meeting
i saw the archangels in my apple-tree last night
i make my shroud, but no one knows
no prey am i of poor thoughts
in your arms was still delight