EYES

A winter sky of pale blue and pale gold,

Bare trees, a wind that made the wood-path cold,

And one slow-moving figure, gray and old.

We met where the soft path falls from the wood

Down to the village. As I came near she stood

And answered when I spoke, drawing the hood

Back from her face. I saw only her eyes,

Large and sad. I could not bear those eyes.

They were like new graves. I could not bear her eyes.

But what we said as each passed on is gone.

We looked and spoke and passed like strangers on,

I to the high wood, she towards the paling sun.

And there, where the clear-heavened small pool lies,

And the tallest beeches brush the bending skies,

In pool and tree I saw again her eyes.