In Manchester Square

(In Memoriam T.H.)

The paralytic man has dropped in death The crossing-sweeper's brush to which he clung, One-handed, twisted, dwarfed, scanted of breath, Although his hair was young.

I saw this year the winter vines of France, Dwarfed, twisted, goblins in the frosty drouth-- Gnarled, crippled, blackened little stems askance On long hills to the South.

Great green and golden hands of leaves ere long Shall proffer clusters in that vineyard wide. And O his might, his sweet, his wine, his song, His stature, since he died!