What long-regretted Aprils yet may wait

For each of these beyond his crypted stone.

Some Springtime that was all too quickly blown,

Some Summer that was roses in his heart,

May wake again in every sweetest part,

And show themselves familiarly his own.

It well may be there are eternal days

For every frailest thing, beyond this door,

Where roses are not ruined any more,

And April with her jonquils stays and stays,

Outlingering walls of granite where they blow ...

I have imagined ... but I do not know.

[39]

[39]

ENCORE

This old slow music will have never done

With dancers who were graceful long ago;

A sigh returns them, one by ghostly one,

To tunes and measures that they knew—and know.

These lifted faces, floating on a stream,

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