First World War Poetry Digital Archive



If it be very strange and sorrowful To scent the first night-frost in autumntide; If on the moaning eve when Summer died Men shuddered, awed to hear her burial; And if the dissolution of one rose (Whereof the future holds unnumbered store) Engender human tears,---ah! how much more Sorrows and suffers be whose sense foreknows The weakening and the withering of a love, The dying of a love that had been dear! Who feels upon a hand, but late love-warm, A hardness of indifference, like a glove; And in the dead calm of a voice may hear The menace of a drear and mighty storm.

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