I HAVE seen women weave
Their delicate way through the gloaming,
I have seen their wraiths go roaming
In the dim and deepening eve.

Their voices in desolate eves
Died long ago in the doorways,
Their memories sleep in the porches
Faded along with the leaves.

As a poor man for a bed
His leaves of gold will heap,
Soul! lay them under thy head,
Thy memories, and sleep.

And take them unto thy breast,
Warmly under them rest,
So that their perfumes that stain
Thy hands in thy heart may remain.

translated by Jethro Bithell