No goodly bed

No goodly bed to rest my bones

among old trees and chiseled stones.

No soft pillow for my head
among the cold and quiet dead.
The grass is grey, the ground is wet,
but winter sun is burning yet
behind a veil with gentle light
surveying every frigid sight.
Such bitter graft and bitter grief,
such bitter wind through limb and leaf.
These marble roses will not die,
this marble girl-child will not cry
or laugh and leap in merry play
upon the grass in light of day.
So lay me down in cold respite
and find me rest in gentle light.