Over the brink of a crevasse,
While thunders down the Alpine pass
The deluge of the equinox.

Lost in that stormy atmosphere,
Men chart their seas and trudge their roads;
Inviolate, we scorn to hear
Their shouted warning that forebodes

An end to these fair episodes
Of life beneath our tranquil sky;
Having sought only peace, then why
Should we go down to death with fear?

Pomfret, 1920


II

The thinkers light their lamps in rows
From street to street, and then
The night creeps up behind, and blows
Them quickly out again.

While Age limps groping toward his home,
Hearing the feet of youth
From dark to dark that sadly roam
The suburbs of the Truth.

Paris, 1919