It Lies Before Me There, And My Own Breath Stirs Its Thin Outer Threads, As Though Beside The Living Head I Stood In Honoured Pride, Talking Of Lovely Things That Conquer Death. Perhaps He Pressed It Once, Or Underneath Ran His Fine Fingers When He Leant, Blank-Eyed, And Saw In Fancy Adam And His Bride With Their Heaped Locks, Or His Own Delphic Wreath. There Seems A Love In Hair, Though It Be Dead. It Is The Gentlest, Yet The Strongest Thread Of Our Frail Plant,--A Blossom From The Tree Surviving The Proud Trunk; As If It Said, Patience And Gentleness In Power. In Me Behold Affectionate Eternity.