No flower hath shed the sheath;
The wood is all brown.
When you have passed the heath.
Then lay her down.
There the beloved head
And the still breast,
When the last foot hath fled,
Sleep shall, and rest.
Freshly the spring wind
Bloweth for her sake;
Cold, but exceeding kind,
Ere any bud awake.
Chill is the thin breeze
That wafteth off the deep,
Yet marreth no man’s ease
Nor drives him home to sleep:
Graciously doth it go,
And savour doth afford
Of early blossoms mixt with snow,
Though neither be abroad.
1918.