Sunday Morning

"...

She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
Encroachment of that old catastrophe ...
                                                      Why should she give her bounty to the dead?
                                                       What is divinity if it can come
                                                       Only in shadows and in dreams?
                                                       Shall she not find ... comforts in the sun
                                                ... Divinity must live within herself;
Passions for rain, or moods in falling snow
Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights
All pleasures and all pains, remembering
The bough of summer and the winter branch.
These are the measures destined for her soul.
                                                                        ...
She says, 'But in contentment I still feel
The need for some imperishable bliss.'
Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams
And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
Of sure obliteration on our paths,
The path sick sorrow took, the many paths
Where triumph rang its brassy phase, or love
Whispered a little out of tenderness,
She makes the willow shiver in the sun ...
She causes boys to pile new plums and pears
On disregarded plate. The maidens taste
And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.

..."