Hilda Doolittle





Good Friend

Time has an end, they say,
sea-walls are worn away
by wind and the sea-spray,
not the herb,
             rosemary.
Queens have died, I am told,
faded the cloth-of-gold,
no Caesar half so bold,
as the herb,
             rosemary.
Rooted within the grave,
spreading to heaven, save
us by the grace He gave
to the herb,
             rosemary.