ISSUE: Autumn 1927
On this day when the sodden earth remembers
The waters whence she sprang, and the low sky aches
With the wound the sun makes, burning invisibly,
On this day my heart is hot as a wound in me,
And my mind holds only a heap of clinkers and embers.
Nothing is real but the past: thin sticks of hours
Charred with a burnt-out fire; these remain,
These, and the falling of a snow like rain,
As though to cover with small icy. flowers
The frenzy, the young joy, the young despair
That will not come again. And all my thought
Is on a love gone over and a child unborn,
And how to forgive the unforgiving years.
The peace I would lay to my heart is a clout that is torn,
And in a drowned world there’s no place for tears.
