So much have I forgotten in ten years, So much in ten brief years! I have forgot What time the purple apples come to juice, And what month brings the shy forget-me-not. I have forgot the special, startling season Of the pimento’s flowering and fruiting; What time of year the ground doves brown the fields And fill the noonday with their curious fluting. I have forgotten much, but still remember The poinsettia’s red, blood-red in warm December. I still recall the honey-fever grass, But cannot recollect the high days when We rooted them out of the ping-wing path To stop the mad bees in the rabbit pen. I often try to think in what sweet month The languid painted ladies used to dapple The yellow by-road mazing from the main, Sweet with the golden threads of the rose-apple. I have forgotten--strange--but quite remember The poinsettia’s red, blood-red in warm December. What weeks, what months, what time of the mild year We cheated school to have our fling at tops? What days our wine-thrilled bodies pulsed with joy Feasting upon blackberries in the copse? Oh, some I know! I have embalmed the days, Even the sacred moments when we played, All innocent of passion, uncorrupt, At noon and evening in the flame-heart’s shade. We were so happy, happy, I remember, Beneath the poinsettia’s red in warm December. THE WILD GOAT[14] O you would clothe me in silken frocks And house me from the cold, And bind with bright bands my glossy locks, And buy me chains of gold. And give me--meekly to do my will-- The hapless sons of men:-- But the wild goat bounding on the barren hill Droops in the grassy pen. RUSSIAN CATHEDRAL Bow down my soul in worship very low And in the holy silences be lost. Bow down before the marble man of woe, Bow down before the singing angel host. What jewelled glory fills my spirit’s eye! What golden grandeur moves the depths of me! The soaring arches lift me up on high Taking my breath with their rare symmetry. Bow down my soul and let the wondrous light Of beauty bathe thee from her lofty throne, Bow down before the wonder of man’s might. Bow down in worship, humble and alone; Bow lowly down before the sacred sight Of man’s divinity alive in stone. DESOLATE My spirit is a pestilential city, With misery triumphant everywhere, Glutted with baffled hopes and lost to pity; Strange agonies make quiet lodgment there. Its bursting sewers ooze up from below, And spread their loathsome substance through its lanes, Flooding all areas with their evil flow, And blocking all the motion of its veins. Its life is sealed to love or hope or pity; My spirit is a pestilential city.