Cynthia's Song

As I came down the Old York Road Saint John's began to ring, Across the Dead Folk in the grass, The wide new dusk of spring.

Each window was a half-blown flower, The pool beneath the hedge Looked like a scrap of Tyrian gold Dropped thinly in the sedge.

I think that never in the world Blew there a tree so white As the wild cherry by the wall, So lonely to the sight.

As I came down the Old York Road Not any soul was near, Except two lovers going by Within the fleet of year.

Oh, windows flowering in the dusk! Oh, pool of fragile gold! Oh bough, fair as my early love, Gone with the dreams of old!

Saint John's grey bell, that grieving bell. Struck out of the frail sky Such gusts of old, lost things — I felt That I must weep or die.