MAY TERM, 1916

I have come back in a rich hour of May My heart, to this gray town of yours and mine, To the grave gardens by the river’s line Where scents rise softly at the end of day —Back from hot city pavements worlds away, Where life flows outwards in a ceaseless line, Where soul treads hard on soul and makes no sign. —To the dear smell of lawns, and the branches sway. Gold of the sky, black boughs, and the rooks call The evening stillness rises like a tide— Across the cobbled court I hush my tread; There is your window, lamplight on your wall, There is a shadow on the blind inside— But you are dead, my dear, but you are dead.