Daylong I dream in pleasant sloth
garmented in white cloth
where no wind murmureth
save the swart wind of death.

Lust of limb nor lust of food
mar the lovely solitude;
yet there stirreth in my clay
memory of an older day.

Love unhandselled, passion lost,
make a music in the dust,
and I hear, but all unmoved,
echoes of a voice I loved.