The Broken Wing/The Secret

​8. The Secret

They come, sweet maids and men with shining tribute, Garlands and gifts, cymbals and songs of praise. . . . How can they know I have been dead, Beloved, These many mournful days?
Or that my delicate dreaming soul lies trampled Like crushed ripe fruit, chance-trodden of your feet, And how you flung the throbbing heart that loved you To serve wild dogs for meat?
They bring me saffron veils and silver sandals Rich crowns of honour to adorn my head— For none save you may know the tragic secret, O Love, that I am dead!
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