Iv

The days approach again; the days Whose mantles stream, whose sandals drag When in the haze by puddled ways The gnarled thorn seems a crookéd hag.

When rotting orchards reek with rain; And woodlands crumble, leaf and log; And in the drizzling yard again The gourd is tagged with points of fog.

Now let me seat my soul among The woods’ dim dreams, and come in touch With melancholy, sad of tongue And sweet, who says so much, so much.