Stalactite

I am a dead thing,

A brittle mummy swathed in canvas,
Gazing with cracked, painted eyes
At a high dome above a still hall.
There is thunder,

And I hear it;

There is lightning,

And I see the tongues of it;

There are many bodies beside mine,
And I see them too.

I died a thousand years ago,
And yet I remember long since,
Drifts of ages since,

Watching,

With other eyes than these,

Diana gathering white poppies upon a seaside hill.