Quick thoughts are these; they do not pass; they gave
Only to death such little, casual things
As are the noteless levies of the grave,—
Sad flesh, weak verse, and idle marketings.
So my mortality for yours complains,
While our immortal fellowship remains.
ON READING FRANCIS LEDWIDGE’S
LAST SONGS
At April’s end, when blossoms break
To birth upon my apple-tree,
I know the certain year will take
Full harvest of this infancy.
At April’s end, when comes the dear
Occasion of your valley tune,
I know your beauty’s arc is here,
A little ghostly morning moon.
Yet are these fosterlings of rhyme
As fortunately born to spend
Happy conspiracies with time
As apple flowers at April’s end.
IN THE WOODS
I was in the woods to-day,
And the leaves were spinning there,
Rich apparelled in decay,—
In decay more wholly fair
Than in life they ever were.
Gold and rich barbaric red
Freakt with pale and sapless vein,
Spinning, spinning, spun and sped
With a little sob of pain
Back to harbouring earth again.