contemporary poetry

i cannot always feel his greatness
often i think of the beautiful town
daughter, thou art come to die
sleep, gray brother of death
softly weeping
eighty years have passed, and more
leave the lovely words unsaid
and still they walked on
we lay
the lightning flashed, and lifted
along the banks
there is no escape by the river
musing, between the sunset and the dark
night was black and drear