Though the grey year scatter these deadly leaves, Black and blood-red, upon the withered grass, And the frail swallow fly South and weary bees Hush their dull music, I think not all shall pass. I think that in the swift white mind's brain Neurons flash images of a world Undead and deathless, burgeoning again. I think that Spring will come this way, unfurled. I shall not ask what answer will be given To proud questionings, raised when men are lonely In cold house, nor shall I now be shriven: The Spring I seek is in a new face only. A shrunken leaf settles: comes a face With a quick sculpture of a fresh grace. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MR. BARNEY MAGUIRE'S ACCOUNT OF THE CORONATION by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM EPITAPH ON DIOPHANTUS by JAMES HAY BEATTIE THE PAVANE by DORIS ELLEN BIESTERFELD THE END by BYRON HAVERLY BLACKFORD TO THE MARQUIS LA FAYETTE by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD AUTHORS IN LONDON by CHARLES WILLIAM BRODRIBB |