[Editor: A poem by P. R. Stephensen. Published in The London Aphrodite, number three, December 1928.]
I shall not sing these songs when I am dead.
No melodies will murmur in my tomb.
I shall not stir impatient in the womb
Of death. I shall be dreamless in that bed.
No rhythmical intention in my head
Will shake with throbs that skully silent gloom.
No colour will be quick in that bleak room.
Nothing will be, when blood will not be red.
Only one image can not perish, quite,
When everything has rotted, as it must:
A voice of music and a small face, white,
Will echo a sole beauty in my dust.
When I am unified with earth and stones
Your love will be a fragrance in my bones.
P. R. Stephensen.
The London Aphrodite, number three, December 1928, page 214