Moritura (She Who Is About to Die)
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| I am the mown grass, dying at your feet, | |
| The pale grass, gasping faintly in the sun. | |
| I shall be dead, long, long ere day is done, | |
| That you may say: “The air, to-day, was sweet.” | |
I am the mown grass, dying at your feet.
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| I am the white syringa, falling now, | |
| When some one shakes the bough. | |
| What matter if I lose my life’s brief noon? | |
You laugh, “A snow in June!”
I am the white syringa, falling now. |
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| I am the waning lamp that flickers on,— | |
| Trying to give my old, unclouded light | |
| Among the rest that make your garden bright. | |
| Let me still burn till all my oil is gone. | |
I am the waning lamp that flickers on.
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| I am your singer, singing my last note. | |
| Death’s fingers clutch my throat. | |
| New grass will grow, new flowers bloom and fall; | |
| New lamps blaze out against your garden wall: | |
| I am your singer, singing my last note. |
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