Grave Archives - The Final Paradox

Cloistered

To-night the little girl-nun died.
Her hands were laid
Across her breast; the last sun…

We do lie beneath the grass
In the moonlight, in the shade
Of the yew-tree.…

A conqueror as provident as brave,
He robbed the cradle to supply the grave.
His…

This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold…

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our…

With two white roses on her breasts,
White candles at head and feet,
Dark Madonna…

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a…

Anna who was mad,
I have a knife in my armpit.
When I stand on…

The handful here, that once was Mary’s earth,
Held, while it breathed, so beautiful a…

‘We are sending you, dear flowers,
Forth alone to die,
Where your gentle sisters may…