Iii

“Such days as these,” she said, and bent Among her marigolds, all dew, And dripping zinnia stems, “were meant For spring not autumn; days we knew In childhood; these endearing those; Much dearer since they have grown old: Days, once imperfect with the rose, Now perfect with the marigold.”

“Such days as these,” he said, and gazed Long with unlifted eyes that held Sad autumn nights, “our hopes have raised In futures that are mist-enspelled. And so it is the fog blows in Days dearer for the death they paint With hues of life and joy,--as sin, At death, puts off all earthly taint.”