In a Wood
Pale beech and pine-tree blue,
Which makes of men a transparency,
Who holds that mirror
And bids us such a breast-bare spectacle see
But my bereavement-pain
It cannot bring again:
Twice no one dies.
'Whenever I plunge my arm, like this,
In a basin of water, I never miss
The sweet sharp sense of a fugitive day
Fetched back from its thickening shroud of gray.
(at a Cathedral Service)
THAT from this bright believing band
An outcast I should be,
"O lonely workman, standing there
In a dream, why do you stare and stare
At her grave, as no other grave where there?"
In a solitude of the sea
Deep from human vanity,
THE two were silent in a sunless church,
Whose mildewed walls, uneven paving-stones,
And wasted carvings passed antique research;
And nothing broke the clock's dull monotones.
If seasons all were summers,
And leaves would never fall,
A Load of brushes and baskets and cradles and chairs
Labours along the street in the rain:
With it a man, a woman, a pony with whiteybrown hairs. --
The man foots in front of the horse with a shambling sway