Think thou upon the bitter strand
Where the down sleeps leaning towards the sea,
And of the vanished fair who rode in the land
Swiftly and far and wide and merrily:
And again think on bright hair,
That was yellow, before it became dust,
As broom looketh that blows in the upland air,
But never think upon the hearts of the just:
For thou mayest pity the salt shore
And the dead fair, her gay locks vanished and gone,
But the just keep their hearts for evermore,
Nor art thou filled with thinking thereupon.
1918.