BY THE LAKE by EDITH SITWELL

ACROSS the thick and the pastel snow
Two people go. . . . "And do you remember
When last we wandered this shore?" . . . "Ah no!
For it is cold-hearted December."
"Dead, the leaves that like asses' ears hung on the trees
When last we wandered and squandered joy here;
Now Midas your husband will listen for these
Whispers -- these tears for joy's bier."
And as they walk, they seem tall pagodas;
And all the ropes let down from the cloud
Ring the hard cold bell-buds upon the trees -- codas
Of overtones, ecstasies, grown for love's shroud.

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