def poetry

little gate was reached at last
very well, you liberals
if i should die, think only this of me
as a white candle
i know not where
come down at dawn from windless hills
among the mountains i wandered
the darkness steals the forms of all the queens
my mother twines me roses wet with dew
i saw with open eyes
my mother taught me that every night
a thin gray shadow on the edge of thought
now that i have cooled to you