Where’s Madge then,
Madge and her men?
buried with
Alice in her hair,
(but if you ask the rain
he’ll not tell where.)
beauty makes terms
with time and his worms,
when loveliness
says sweetly Yes
to wind and cold;
and how much earth
is Madge worth?
Inquire of the flower that sways in the autumn
she will never guess.
but i know