Verse

d. Ho! white they stand, so white they are, White lily and blanche nenuphar. We walk among them, she and I In gradual complicity. The four winds are her clarions. With the young night her signal runs Across the world . . . the risen dead, (Long dead, long risen) troop for us; Their shrouds have rotted shred by shred, Their faded souls are dolorous And grey from going to and fro Along the interminable skies. WHO WALKS WITH NATURE I meet the knowledge in their eyes. . . . Their pale eyes full of irony. Long dead, long risen; faith is dead And hope has rotted shred by shred, And there is only irony. We walk among them, she and I, In reticent complicity. I know the secret of her suns, The signal of her clarions, The mystery of her hooded skies And of the hooded dead, whose eyes Are dark with thought and irony And cynical complicity. Ho! brother of the sheeted dead, Who walks with nature? To and fro, Like linen flags, her signals go, Beneath which troop the quick and dead. THE SWALLOW HERE'S a swallow flying to Venice, JL And sick for a sight of the sea, O, wayfarer, O, swallow, Fly light and low, I would follow To the dim blue isles of Venice, And the blue, dim light of the sea. I am sick for the strange, new faces For the flags and the ships and the sea, For the new strange life and the singing For the boatman's cries and the ringing Of bells in the windy places, And the windy foam on the sea. O, swallow flying...