128
POEMS.
xxiii.
There was no motion in the dumb dead air,
Not any song of bird or sound of rill.
Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre
Is not so deadly still
There was no motion in the dumb dead air,
Not any song of bird or sound of rill.
Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre
Is not so deadly still
xxiv.
As that wide forest. Clasping jasmine turned
Its twinèd arms festooning tree to tree,
And at the root thro' lush green grasses burned
The red anemone.
As that wide forest. Clasping jasmine turned
Its twinèd arms festooning tree to tree,
And at the root thro' lush green grasses burned
The red anemone.
xxv.
I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I knew
The tearful glimmer of the languid dawn
On those long, rank, dark woodwalks drenched in dew,
Leading from lawn to lawn.
I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I knew
The tearful glimmer of the languid dawn
On those long, rank, dark woodwalks drenched in dew,
Leading from lawn to lawn.
xxvi.
The smell of violets, hidden in the green,
Poured back into my empty soul and frame
The times when I remember to have been
Joyful and free from blame.
The smell of violets, hidden in the green,
Poured back into my empty soul and frame
The times when I remember to have been
Joyful and free from blame.
