 | Wild honey from various thyme |  |
114
DEPRESSION
The swans of Worcester with their lifted wingsIn wreaths of white make the dull heaven more drear;
The shining water-lily leaves lie clear
Open in sunlessness; no wanderings
Of cloud are on the stream: each shadow clings
Firm to the under pool, the willows sheer,
Lucent as icicles. Then noon draws near
And fastens in the gloom. What is it brings
Such sorrow to the air,—a power, a cold
As from blown flame? Is it from plague, from strife,
Blood crying from the ground? Nay, the young life
Of centuries has hurtled overhead,
And lingers, vanquished, and not growing old,
Youth's stubborn, immature, unburied dead.
| Wild honey from various thyme | |