Not a wanderer may go,

 But he shares the dark with me

 Underneath the snow.”

 And the scarlet berries scattered

 With the coming on of fall;

 Not to one of them it mattered

 Anything at all.

 19  

19

The Moondial

 Iron and granite and rust,

Iron

I

 In a crumbling garden old,

 Where the roses are paler than dust

 And the lilies are green with gold,

 Under the racing moon,

 Inconscious of war or crime,

 In a strange and ghostly noon,

 It marks the oblivion of time.

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