Poetry Archives

They lie entangled in the twisting roots,
 Embraced forever.  Their cold marriage bed
Close-canopied and curtained by the shoots
 Of willows and pale birches.  At the head,
White lilies, like still swans, placidly float
 And sway above the pebbles.  Here are waves
    Sun-smitten for a threaded counterpane
 Gold-woven on their graves.
In perfect quietness they sleep, remote
In the green, rippled twilight.  Death has smote
    Them to perpetual oneness who were twain.