I cannot tell you what it is waits beyond love;
Nor what it means, the still hour after.
I can think only of a wide field of poppies afire
On driven stems, dashed in the gale.
I cannot touch you now.
I lie beside you chill. My heart has waned cold.
A high white mountain has breathed upon my heart.
Let us gather out of our thoughts a poppy cloak
To draw about this strangeness.
I cannot tell you what it is waits beyond love;
Nor what it means, the still hour after.
