II
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ale flakes with lingering stealth come feeling for our faces--We cringe in holes, back on forgotten dreams, and stare, snow-dazed,Deep into grassier ditches. So we drowse, sun-dozed,Littered with blossoms trickling where the blackbird fusses.Is it that we are dying? Slowly our ghosts drag home: glimpsing the sunk fires glozedWith crusted dark-red jewels; crickets jingle there;For hours the innocent mice rejoice: the house is theirs;Shutters and doors all closed: on us the doors are closed--We turn back to our dying. Since we believe not otherwise can kind fires burn;Nor ever suns smile true on child, or field, or fruit.For God's invincible spring our love is made afraid;Therefore, not loath, we lie out here; therefore were born,For love of God seems dying. To-night, His frost will fasten on this mud and us,Shrivelling many hands and puckering foreheads crisp.The burying-party, picks and shovels in their shaking grasp,Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice,But nothing happens.
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