Collected poems, 1901-1918/"The Hawthorn Hath a Deathly Smell"

by Walter de la Mare

"THE HAWTHORN HATH A DEATHLY SMELL"

THE flowers of the field
Have a sweet smell;
Meadowsweet, tansy, thyme,
And faint-heart pimpernel;
But sweeter even than these,
The silver of the may
Wreathed is with incense for
The Judgment Day.

An apple, a child, dust,
When falls the evening rain,
Wild brier's spiced leaves,
Breathe memories again;
With further memory fraught.
The silver of the may
Wreathed is with incense for
The Judgment Day.

Eyes of all loveliness —
Shadow of strange delight,
Even as a flower fades
Must thou from sight;
But oh, o'er thy grave's mound,
Till come the Judgment Day,
Wreathed shall with incense be
Thy sharp-thorned may.