Death walks through the mind's dark woods,
Beautiful as aconite,
A lily-flower in his pale hand
And eyes like moonstones burning bright.
Love walks down heart's corridors
Singing for a crust of bread
All the tales of laughing youth
Who tomorrow will lie dead.
Here two summer metaphors;
For even on a sun-mad day
Laughter breaks into salt tears,
And grave is never far away.