He wakes, who never thought to wake again,
Who held the end was Death. He opens
Slowly, to one long livid oozing plain Closed down by the strange eyeless heavens. He lies;
And waits; and once in timeless sick
Through the dead air heaves up an unknown hand,
Like a dry branch. No life is in that land,
Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries;
An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speck Of moveless horror; an Immortal
Cleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a fly Fast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse's neck.
I thought when love for you died,
I should die.
It's dead. Alone, most strangely,
I live on.
