Than spring’s new scents The winter’s earliest wind Blows from the hills the first fai… Of Snow. Why have I

Meet thou the event And terrible happening of Thine end: for thou art come Upon the remote, cold place Of ultimate dissolution and

Nor stars . . the dark . . and in The dark the grey Ghost glimmer of the olive trees The black straight rows Of Cypresses.

Too far afield thy search. Nay, t… At thine own elbow potent Memory… Thy double, and eternity is cupped In the pale hollow of those ghostl…

Sun and wind and beat of sea, Great lands stretching endlessly’€… Where be bonds to bind the free? All the world was made for me!

Keep thou Thy tearless watch All night but when blue-dawn Breathes on the silver moon, then… Then weep!

Every day, Every day, Tell the hours By their shadows, By their shadows.

Not spring’s Thou art, but hers, Most cool, most virginal, Winter’s, with thy faint breath, t… Rose-tinged.

What words Are left thee then Who hast squandered on thy Forgetfulness eternity’s I Love?

These be three silent things: The falling snow . . . the hour Before the dawn . . . the mouth of… Just dead.

Well and If day on day Follows and weary year On year . . . and ever days and ye… Well?

For Aubrey Beardsley’s picture Pierrot is dying: Tiptoe in, Finger touched to lip, Harlequin,

If illness’ end be health regained… Will pay you, Asculapeus, when I…

‘Boy, lying Where the long grass Edges the pool’s brim, What do you watch There in the water? The blue

Fugitive, wistful, Pausing at edge of her going, Autumn, the maiden, turns, Leans to the earth with ineffable Gesture. Ah, more than