And we may yet discover, after all,
How flesh is glory whitening on the hedge,
Or wine-red tulips burning at a wall;—
And we may learn, by some wild-flowered ledge,
How solemn dust at last turns gay again,
To light the Spring for later, wandering men.
IMPOSTOR
This Autumn of the yellow lanes
Is come a sorry vagabond,
Grown tearful now and over-fond
Of grey and melancholy rains.
He loves his griefs and broken sighs,
His sorrows of a thousand years,—
And thinks we do not know those tears
Are wood-smoke in his eyes.
If leaves go by us in a gust,
He needs must clutch his heart, and say:
"Alas" or else "Alack-a-day"—
And thinks we take it all on trust.
So sad and sad a rake he is!—
And yet so glad of being sad,
Knowing no fellow ever had
Such fine, becoming griefs as his.