Most near, most dear, most loved, and most far, br Under the huge window where I often found her br Sitting as huge as Asia, seismic with laughter, br Gin and chicken helpless in her Irish hand, br Irresistible as Rabelais but most tender for br The lame dogs and hurt birds that surround her,— br She is a procession no one can follow after br But be like a little dog following a brass band. br She will not glance up at the bomber or condescend br To drop her gin and scuttle to a cellar, br But lean on the mahogany table like a mountain br Whom only faith can move, and so I send br O all her faith and all my love to tell her br That she will move from mourning into morning.