The trunks of trees which I knew glorious green, Which I saw felled last year, already show Rust-red their rounds; the twisting path between Takes it new way already plain as though It went this way since years and years ago. The plough I saw my friend so often guide, Snapped on the sly snag at the spinney side, Lies rusting there where brambles overflow; As gulfed in limbo lake as buried coins, Which, once both bread and wine, now nothing mean. The spider dates it not but spins in the heat, For what's time past? but present time is sweet. Think, in that churchyard lies fruit of our loins -- The child who bright as pearl shone into breath With the Egyptian's first-born shares coeval death. |