Scatter my ashes in your vale of kings,
Or by a pond secure from frosty wind;
Or lake, perhaps, where yesterday’s tidings
Bring repose and solace I might yet find
From the harsh sun that burnt me brown as dusk
In autumn. Winter is yet to come, I fear,
When sheilas dress refined and smell of musk
While silent Indian gurus are yet to wear
Plainclothes and cast off peace. Summer shall thin,
Then old lovers try new hoods, new scents, fresh
As a daisy bud or lilac pressed in
My book of lame songs. It’s all life-mesh
To be in love with love and still the One
Is veiled. Foot faulted, and hope will soon be gone.
