It is time, it is time, to rest my head.
While the sun is high, and curtains are drawn;
while the midnight ghosts still circle the bed
leaving dreams for me that shall not be gone
when the Reaper comes to collect my head.
Then, I’ll follow, no pity in my heart,
for I loved a woman, who had once said:
“Don’t try to love, if you can’t bear to part.”

Here, under the thick afternoon covers
that heavily hang off The Saffron Quilt,
the ghosts will tell me: “It is not lovers;
‘tis only the summer flowers that wilt.”