ISSUE: Winter 1936
BEYOND, in a great circle, swings the sky And the blown clouds of a November day.
Like the last leaves the years are driven by Over the excellent dead within this clay.
Action came after dream, deed followed thought.
So early were they up, so full of breath,
So strongly have they built, and loved, and fought That their plain names alone still stand off death.
What of their love, whose love warmed all their speech,
Who gave it as straightly as a sudden blow? This storm within the straining sense’s reach May swoop and howl now what we wish to know,
Pitching some branch of wisdom which will save: Men sometimes send their love up from the grave.
