THE DEAD LOVER

You say I am dead, that my being Has passed with intangible dreams; You hold me a shadow of shadows, One moat in myriad beams. But I am the yield of the harvest, Astir in the ripening corn; My voice is the wind of the forest, I breathe and impregnate the dawn. I spring from the womb of the ocean, And rise in its flying foam, Till I merge with the quickening rain That falls on the fertile loam. Dear of my heart, when the moonlight Comes dusting the shimmering grass, You may lie unveiled in your bridal, My lips are on yours as I pass. You say I am dead, that communion Has spilled from our sacrament bowl, Nay, Love, I am seed of Creation, Immutable flame with the Whole.