The Unreturning Spring
A leaf on the gray sand—path
Fallen, and fair with rime!
A yellow leaf, a scarlet leaf,
And a green leaf ere its time.
Days rolled in blood, days torn,
Days innocent, days burnt black,
What is it the wind is sighing
As the leaves float, swift or slack?
The year’s pale spectre is crying
For beauty invisibly shed,
For the things that never were told
And were killed in the minds of the dead.
