Dead.

And I wove you a silent singing out of the wind,
When it cries in the lonely tree-lop over the hill.
But your heart was dead as a loveless day, and as blind
As a sleep-drugged soul were your eyes, and your lips were still.

And I made a rhyme for you where the sky went down
In measured lines to the sea and the masts of the ships.
But you heard no more than the streets of the echoing town,
And as hard as the sea were your eyes, and as silent your lips.

—Elissa C. Rollett.