(for Sara Teasdale)

Her heart was a delicate silver lyre
       On which love’s finger played
Songs that were glittering faery fire
       In som dark, mystic glade.

Her song was ever a woman’s song,
       Wrung from a woman’s breast,
That argued never a right nor wrong,
       But sung our hearts to rest.

Her ashes we scattered upon the sea,
       As song is spilt on air;
But under the April rain she is free,
       She is silent, and does not care!