Some Sundays, as I drag myself from bed,
Crawl down to Dover, sigh on out to sea,
I wish, I pray that you had only said
Why He should take you so long before me.

I still can see your silent, striding calm,
Your dangling scarf, your fringe over your frown.
I can't imagine how you came to harm.
I think of you some Sundays and I drown.