Your strength is gone, your impetus is quenched.

And then the world will call you great and grand,

And make a fortune out of all those waters:

Your tears, your blood, your work, and what you spent;

The strength of all your aims and all your falls!

{16}

{16}

 IN THE RUSHING WIND

THE wind hath whirled the leaves from off the tree.

T

The leaves were yellow, they had lived their time,

And lie a golden heap or fly away,

As if the butterflies had left their wings

Behind, when love's short summertime had gone,

And killed them. Lightly doth the leaves' great shower

Whirl on and skim the ground, where ancient leaves

Lie rotten, trampled on, so featureless,

That you can hardly tell what formed that mould,

{17}

That never-ending burial-place of leaves.

 Prev. P 12/54 next