Daily Stories

with blinds, And I knew that she was dead.

p. 53XXXVII

p. 53

’Twas in a world of living leaves That we two reaped and bound our sheaves: They were of white roses and red, And in the scything they were dead.

Now the high Autumn flames afield, And what is all his golden yield To that we took, and sheaved, and bound In the green dusk that gladdened round?

Yet must the memory grieve and ache Of that we did for dear love’s sake, But may no more under the sun, Being, like our summer, spent and done.

p. 54XXXVIII

p. 54

Since those we love and those we hate, With all things mean and all things great, Pass in a desperate disarray Over the hills and far away:

It must be, Dear, that, late or soon, Out of the ken of the watching moon, We shall abscond with Yesterday Over the hills and far away.

What does it matter? As I deem, We shall but follow as brave a dream As ever smiled a wanton May Over the hills and far away.

We shall remember, and, in pride, Fare forth, fulfilled and satisfied, Into the land of Ever-and-Aye, Over the hills and far away.

p. 55XXXIX

p. 55

These were the woods of wonder We found so close and boon, When the bride-month in her beauty Lay mouth to mouth with June.

November, the old, lean widow, Sniffs, and snivels, and shrills, And the bowers are all dismantled, And the long grass wets and chills;

And I hate these dismal dawnings, These miserable even-ends, These orts, and rags, and heeltaps— This dream of being merely friends.

p. 56XL

p. 56

‘Dearest, when I am dead, Make one last song for me: Sing what I would have said— Righting life’s wrong for me.