Song from a Play
Whirls now the wind with winter snow, And trout-sweet brook is hard as glass ; Old bones full well that rigour know ; They pine for the South, but—let it pass.
" Why this pretence, No-longer-mine ? You gave ;, then took all back. Alas .l Straight to my face. 'All hope resign I', " So may a woman, but-4et it pass.
Wag the wry world then how it please— Stark wilderness or sour morass ; Or sink of all iniquities : Stare the thing out 1 And—let it pass.
Thought ebbs and flows. 0 blest full-tide Nothing more actual ever was To Imagination in its pride Worth pinch of dust ; but—let it pass.
Love is life's sovereign fount of grace. All else in the feast—a demi-tasse. .
Place, Fortune, Fame—watch Wisdom's face !
None came my way ; but—let it pass.
Sharp lust for earth's small hope for heaven.
How were I worth, good, souls, one Mass?
Yet have I tasted sorrows seven : Truth be my witness. Let it pass.
WALTER DE LA MARE,
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