A PRESENT FROM FLANDERS
Reading edition
Where dewfall and the moon Make precious things, On every small festoon A spider slings: Treading—like dead leaves under All drifted days, Happy the lovers wander In Winter ways; No thought of pain perplexes The peace they hold; No worldly sorrow vexes The lovers. Gold— All golden gleams the way; How strange such riches Drawn from rough men should be Seven or eight worlds away, Fighting, and carelessly, Dying in ditches!