Still, still, with all your ancient bloom,
You glow athwart our gloom.
Still, O too callous flowers,
You load with gems these swooning hours.
Still, still, the lilac foams and falls
Against our hollow silenced walls.
Against the cinders of our homes,
Wistaria falls and foams.
When all the Spring is all a loaded grave,
How can your banners wave?
How when the wind goes round your way,
How can your trumpets play?
For whom your splendours chiefly shone,
All those, all those, are gone.
Now Spring is nipped and hoar,
Too callous flowers, why bloom ye more?
Still, still, the scarlet sorrel gleams
All noon along the noon-gold streams.
Still, still, the meadow-pippet's feet
Are dewed on meadow-sweet.
Be curst, O callous flowers that come so fair
With taunts at our despair.
Or if next Spring shall lead you back,
Be all your petals black!
EVENING—KENT
Sheep, like woolly clouds dropt from the sky,
Drift through the quiet meads.
From over the seas, a little cry,
—Europe bleeds!
Clouds, like woolly sheep, hardly stir'd,
Drift through the quiet skies.
From over the seas, a little word,
—Europe dies!