BESIDE the palisade of silver birch-trees Green beards of staring ogres shake and wave Defiance, lest between the silver birches Rudely I thrust, to stare upon the grave Maiden-like waters of the windless lake. Ogres like those that make night visions torture Could not avail to stay my heedless tread; Their tiny fierce eyes could no longer fright me. —But in the lake the eyelids of one dead Would float up, opening ghastly at my gaze. There needs no angry ogres with green beards, Nor floating horror of a face weed-vexed: Never the so unremembered love shall be profaned, Never again that image be perplexed By any gust of anger or despair. |