Against the snowy meadow;
The moonlight weaves a net
Of silver and of shadow.
The sky is cold above me,
The icy road below
Leads me from you who love me,
To unknown destinies.
Was that your whistle?--No,
The wind among the trees.

Sheffield, 1917


VII

When in the ultimate embrace
Our blown dust mingles in the wind,
And others wander in the place
Where we made merry;
When in the dance of spring we spend
Our ashen powers with the gale,
What will these tears and joys avail,
The winged kiss, the laughing face,
Where we make merry?
Save that with everlasting grace
Thy soul shall linger in this place,
And haunt with music, or else be
A lyric in the memory.

Boston, 1915