…from the quills of the dead white poets

 Matthew Arnold (1822 – 1888)

 Strew on her roses, roses,

And never a spray of yew,

In quiet she reposes:

Ah! would that I did too.

Her mirth the world required:

She bath’d it in smiles of glee.

But her heart was tired, tired,

And now they let her be.

Her life was turning, turning,

In mazes of heat and sound.

But for her peace her soul was yearning,

And now peace laps her round.

Her cabin’d, ample Spirit,

It flutter’d and fail’d for breath.

To-night it doth inherit

Thy vasty Hall of Death.

About Avadoro Worden

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