THE VEIL
Here where the snow comes whitely down,
All worldiness is done;
The saintly, silent little Town
Is like a nun;
Most holy in her street and spire,
Most perfectly at rest,—
Ah, God, who knows what hid desire
Is in her breast,
Where peony or daffodil
Or wayward rose begins,
Burning her drifted bosom, still,
Like secret sins.
THE YEAR IS OLD
Day fades with fading colours from the sky,
And blue smoke blowing where the hills are gold,
Is all a tale of loveliness gone by:
Summer is ended, and the year is old,
Beauty and bloom are wet leaves in the grass,
And music is a lone wind on the hill,
Crying that all things beautiful must pass,
Crying that beauty is remembered still.