Oh, what soft wings shall rise above this place,

This little garden of spiced bergamot,

Poppy and iris and forget-me-not,

On Doomsday, to the ghostly throne of space!

The haunting wings, most like the visible trace

Of passing azure in a shadowy spot—

The wings of spirits, native to this plot,

Returning to their intermitted Grace!

And one shall mingle in her cloudy hair

Blossoms of twilight, dark as her dark eyes;

And one to Heaven upon her arm shall bear

Colors of what she was in her first birth;

And all shall carry upward through the skies

Odor and dew of the familiar earth.