By The Lake

Dame Edith Sitwell

Across the flat and the pastel snow
Two people go…. ‘And do you remember
When last we wandered this shore?’… ‘Ah no!
For it is cold-hearted December.’
‘Dead, the leaves that like asses’s ears hung on the trees
When last we wandered and squandered joy here;
Now Midas your husband will listen for these
Whispers—these tears for joy’s bier.’
And as they walk, they seem tall pagodas;
And all the ropes let down from the cloud
Ring the hard cold bell-buds upon the trees—codas
Of overtones, ecstasies, grown for love’s shroud.

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