ISSUE: Autumn 1932
The flattened purples that you find In an old missal book,
Premeditated as were those,
You find here, if you look.
Clumped in the gapings of a fence Their autumnal faces show—
Unhonied as the wall beside—
And watch the thin days go.
Rebellings quenched, relinquished dreams Crack in the fragile sun;
The gables beckon; broken the staff Now journeying is done.
They watch the lagging heart come home,
Its towered rituals through;
And the last candle splutter out,
Door after door clap to.
And theirs as much of certitude As each were April flower;
From thunderings of the ancient law They force an immortal hour.
Yet not from Apriling are these;
Wars know they, grate of spears;
Their settled looks are raised upon A dynasty of tears.
To clump there in the harvest grass Cost more than one can guess;
They battered down a tyranny To gain a loveliness.
