Her handful of bones wished enough grace
So that a fading fuel spread
Sad suns of rouge upon
The winter of her face,
Dry winter staled with dread,
Street, street and no green land
Save this holding of my young man's hand.

Her hand of bones borne in my flesh
Like a rib while I brought her
Where worst decay appeared
More ripe and fresh
Than the gaunt gambling year on yellow year;
Alas that here hope died at the root,
Dropping her last red, wrinkled fruit.