He wakes, who never thought to wake again, br Who held the end was Death. He opens eyes br Slowly, to one long livid oozing plain br Closed down by the strange eyeless heavens. br He lies; br And waits; and once in timeless sick surmise br Through the dead air heaves up an unknown hand, br Like a dry branch. No life is in that land, br Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries; br An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speck br Of moveless horror; an Immortal One br Cleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a fly br Fast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse’s neck. br br I though when love for you died, I should die. br It’s dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.