VI

Then, suddenly, I was awake. Dead things

Were all about me and the year was dead.

Save where the birches grew, all leaves were shed

And nowhere fell the sound of song or wings.

The fields I deemed were graves of worshipped Kings

Had lost their bloom; no honey-bee now fed

Therein, and no white daisy bowed its head

To harken to the wind's love-murmurings.

Yet, by my dream, I know henceforth for me

This time of year shall hold some unknown grace

When the leaves fall, and shall be sanctified:

As April only comes for memory

Of him who kissed the veil from Beauty's face

That we might see, and passed at Easter-tide.