Fleshly communions with the scattered ghosts
Whom in the by-ways of the past I met,
And whom I am desirous to forget,
Lest at their feasts they shout aloud old toasts
And grin with laughter that is desolate?
For then the crimson tinge would cross your cheek—
A tragic color—and your heart would seek
Mutely for spring, though shorn of leaves by Fate.
VII.
Winter! It is not winter when the snows