halloween poetry

stuff of the moon
made up of loveliness alone
i make my shroud, but no one knows
as a white candle
she must go back, she said
i shake my hair in the wind of morning
under a spreading chestnut tree
within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
some one complained to the master
high-born race
be not false
those black eyes i once so praised
beneath the warrior's helm
stern cold man