SEALED WORD by HORTENSE KING FLEXNER

Not by the Spring,
Nor the sun-doubled scent
Of lilac, heavy-headed;
Not by the wing
Of the secret thrush, nor new leaf bent
And drooping like a tired hand at the wrist,
Not by the thicket threaded
With beads in a green mist,
Are we persuaded earth is never spent;

But when in the Autumn night,
The thinning nut trees, hazel, oak and beech,
Send down their shells locked tight,
To the frosted mold,
Or sharp precarious ledge—
We trust this speech;
The haunted mind receives
From root and bough,
A word so sealed to last against all cold.
The sound of heavy dropping is a pledge,
A sober vow
Against the too light perishing of leaves.

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