My mother Foresaw deaths And walked among Chrysanthemums, Winecolored, Withered rose, The earthy blossoms. My very breath Disowned In nights of study, And page by page I came on spring. The rats run on the roof, These words come hard--- Sadder than cockcrow In a dreamless, earthen sleep. The Christ, eternal In the scented cold; my love, Her hand on the sill White, as if out of earth; And spring, the sleep of the dead.