Between the grey pastures and the dark wood A valley of white poppies is lit by the low moon: It is the grave of dreams, a holy rood. It is quiet there: no wind doth ever fall. Long, long ago a wind sang once a heartsweet rune. Now the white poppies grow, silent and tall. A white bird floats there like a drifting leaf: It feeds upon faint sweet hopes and perishing dreams And the still breath of unremembering grief. And as a silent leaf the white bird passes, Winnowing the dusk by dim forgetful streams. I am alone now among the silent grasses. |