Grey pastures

In the grey gloaming where the white moth flies --

When I, quiet dust on the forgetful wind,

Shall be untroubled by any breath of sighs --

It may be I shall fall like dew upon

The still breath of grey pastures such as these

Wherein I wander now 'twixt dusk and dawn.

See, in this phantom bloom I leave a kiss:

It was given me in fire; now it is grey dust:

Mayhap I may thrill again at the touch of this.