II.

Mottled and grey and brown they pass,

The wood-moths, wheeling, fluttering;

And we chase and they vanish; and in the grass

Are starry flowers, and the birds sing

Faint broken songs of the dying spring.

And on the beech-bole, smooth and grey,

Some lover of an older day

Has carved in time-blurred lettering

One word only — “Alas.”