1829 

And the long wind.html">wind.html">wind.html">wind in the cedars will sing.html">sing.html">sing of this for ever. Thin rain of the saddest of Septembers But spring was with me in your slender form, Although the chilly embers And the wind clung to the overhanging shadows, (And even fair to the spirit.html">spirit that remembers) And the long wind in the cedars will sing of this for ever. Years, and in slow lugubrious succession Autumn is in the air and in the past, Sunlight and clouds in hesitant procession, There is a battle-music in the cedars, Hail, dead reality and living vision, And the long wind in the cedars will sing of this for ever. Tours, 1918 Memory singing from a tree has given That I may dig therein as in a mine. Did I call you, little Vigilant One, under the waning sun? Through the fine dew-drenched grass.html">grass when the colours faded Who is that shadow holding over you a veil of tempest woven, Lean nearer, I fear him, and the sigh And the cry Cuts through the twilight with a threat of night. And echoes in my spirit. As it takes its lonely outgoing towards the sea? Your silence is an ecstasy of speech, Unconquered by the overwhelming frown. Bid him begone, or let me reach Who was he? surely no comrade of the dawn, Was he then Love? or Death? . . . but he is gone. Come, I will take your hand,--this little glade You dropped the Persian vase here on this stone, And then you cried, half angry, half afraid; And carefully took the pieces one by one, I brought another vessel filled When the first star.html">star stepped from immensity, Do you remember it? White flame you burned against the star grey grass. .

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