Still falls the Rain---
Dark as the world of man, black as our loss---
Blind as the nineteen hundred and forty nails
Upon the Cross.
WHEN cold December
Froze to grisamber
The jangling bells on the sweet rose-trees--
Then fading slow
BENEATH the flat and paper sky
The sun, a demon's eye,
Glowed through the air, that mask of glass;
All wand'ring sounds that pass
Tall as a crane,
The morning light creaks down again;
ACROSS the flat and the pastel snow
Two people go . . . . 'And do you remember
When last we wandered this shore?' . . . 'Ah no!
For it is cold-hearted December.'
Closes her slanting eyes:
Dead is she long ago.
From her fan, sliding slow,
SAID the Lion to the Lioness-'When you are amber dust,-
No more a raging fire like the heat of the Sun
(No liking but all lust)-
CAME the great Popinjay
Smelling his nosegay:
In cages like grots
The birds sang gavottes.
Bells of gray crystal
Break on each bough--
The swans' breath will mist all
The cold airs now.