A PRESENT FROM FLANDERS
Where dewfall and the moon
Make precious things,
On every small festoon
A spider slings:
Treading—like dead leaves under
All drifted days,
Happy the lovers wander
In Winter ways;
No thought of pain perplexes
The peace they hold;
No worldly sorrow vexes
The lovers. Gold—
All golden gleams the way;
How strange such riches
Drawn from rough men should be
Seven or eight worlds away,
Fighting, and carelessly,
Dying in ditches!