John Myers O'Hara

Atropos, dreadOne of the Three,

Golden pulse grew on the shore,Ferns along the hill,

With all the fairest angels nearest God,The ineffable true of heart around the throne,

By the fond name that was his own and mine,The last upon his lips that strove with doom,

What shape so furtive steals along the dimBleak street, barren of throngs, this day of June;