II.
MOTTLED and grey and brown they pass,
The wood-moths, wheeling, fluttering;
And we chase and they vanish; and in the grass
Are starry flowers, and the birds sing
Faint broken songs of the dying spring.
And on the beech-hole, smooth and grey,
Some lover of an older day
Has carved in time-blurred lettering
One world only:—“Alas.”