Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/27

 And all her body was more virtuous Than souls of women fashioned otherwise.

Now, ballad, gather poppies in thine hands And sheaves of brier and many rusted sheaves Rain-rotten in rank lands, Waste marigold and late unhappy leaves And grass that fades ere any of it be mown; And when thy bosom is filled full thereof Seek out Death’s face ere the light altereth, And say “My master that was thrall to Love Is become thrall to Death.” Bow down before him, ballad, sigh and groan, But make no sojourn in thine outgoing; For haply it may be That when thy feet return at evening Death shall come in with thee.