Ora Pro Nobis

The dead die when we living let them die;
We breathing clasp to hearts our breathless dead;
We pack them lettuce fresh on icy beds.
In silent rooms they speak our names. They cry
To us: “Remember me! Remember me!"
Ah, Cissy, I remember you. Your eyes
Which last saw light at seventeen still lie
In me like jeweled cuts of sun-cut sea.
I dream your eyes, their baffled quiet grace;
Others forget, but I do not forget;
You prick my prayers, poor altars of regret;
My mind’s sharp eye calls back your sea-sun gaze.
       Pray all, I pray, who read these lines of song,
​       For her whose eyes are gone when I am gone.