Memory
They have left me little indeed, how shall I best keep
Memory from sliding content down to drugged sleep?
But my blood, in its colour even, is known fighter.
If I were hero for such things here would I make wars
As love for dead things trodden under in January's stars,
Or the gold trefoil itself spending in careless places
Tiny graces like music's for its past exquisitenesses.
Why war for huge domains of the planet's heights or plains?
(Little they leave me.) It is a dream. Hardly my heart dares
Tremble for glad leaf-drifts thundering under January's stars.
Memory from sliding content down to drugged sleep?
But my blood, in its colour even, is known fighter.
If I were hero for such things here would I make wars
As love for dead things trodden under in January's stars,
Or the gold trefoil itself spending in careless places
Tiny graces like music's for its past exquisitenesses.
Why war for huge domains of the planet's heights or plains?
(Little they leave me.) It is a dream. Hardly my heart dares
Tremble for glad leaf-drifts thundering under January's stars.
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