Excerpt from The Wind in the Temple Poems
(To T. J.)
. . . A broken blossom, a dead rose enshrined
In odours of the wood, brown briers twined
About an ancient stone . . .
A leaf of withered amber in the wind
Drifts on alone.
In the still hollows the curled vapours seem
To mourn; and on dim grass sunk to a dream
Of shrouded amethyst,
Like fallen stars white scattered petals gleam
Through the blue mist.
The wood is soundless, save where gems are shed
From dripping branches, soft like laughter sped
Away from eyes that weep
On the pine-carpet and the dead leaves spread
By hands of Sleep.
Singing is fled, frail music of the merle
Is lost like Love; and like a dead child's curl
A curved gold rose-leaf rests.
Each needle of the pines has its own pearl
Of vanished quests.
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