We shall remember, and, in pride,
Fare forth, fulfilled and satisfied,
Into the land of Ever-and-Aye,
Over the hills and far away.
XXXIX
These were the woods of wonder
We found so close and boon,
When the bride-month in her beauty
Lay mouth to mouth with June.
November, the old, lean widow,
Sniffs, and snivels, and shrills,
And the bowers are all dismantled,
And the long grass wets and chills;
And I hate these dismal dawnings,
These miserable even-ends,
These orts, and rags, and heeltaps—
This dream of being merely friends.
XL
‘Dearest, when I am dead,
Make one last song for me:
Sing what I would have said—
Righting life’s wrong for me.
‘Tell them how, early and late,
Glad ran the days with me,
Seeing how goodly and great,
Love, were your ways with me.’
XLI
Dear hands, so many times so much
When the spent year was green and prime,
Come, take your fill, and touch
This one poor time.