Classic Poem

She who had wit, and so was wise,
Beside an upland church-door lies;
And you and I who have no wit
Are left. Death has the best of it.

This room, being hers, has hoarded well
The glittering things she used to tell;
Now and again from out some crack
The sharp gold of a word drops back.

Then you and I, as we look up,
See in the air as in a cup—
Strange petaling in a tired place—
The flowering oval of her face. …

Outdoors, within a misty gust,
The long trees stream across the dust,
In flaring crowds to the world's rim,
Like red cloaks of the cherubim.