Of dormant Claire I dream and crave.
If I were brave
I’d tell her too –
That since she’s been asleep
The flowers grew
And bent upon her grave.
The flowers grew
With roots so deep –
They almost touch her in the sleep;
I’d die to touch her. And I fear
That every day may bring my end
And I will bend
Like flowers on her tomb
And then, once more we’ll hear,
The falling rain, outside our room.
At night, as in a grave
I see the light: shaped like a frozen wave
And shaped like her, my frozen dear.
Of dormant Claire I dream.