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. |