Page:Collected poems vol 1 de la mare.djvu/175

 HE flowers of the field
 * Have a sweet smell;

Meadowsweet, tansy, thyme,
 * And faint-heart pimpernel;

But sweeter even than these,
 * The silver of the may

Wreathed is with incense for
 * The Judgment Day.

An apple, a child, dust,
 * When falls the evening rain,

Wild brier's spiced leaves,
 * Breathe memories again;

With further memory fraught.
 * The silver of the may

Wreathed is with incense for
 * The Judgment Day.

Eyes of all loveliness —
 * Shadow of strange delight,

Even as a flower fades
 * Must thou from sight;

But oh, o'er thy grave's mound,
 * Till come the Judgment Day,

Wreathed shall with incense be
 * Thy sharp-thorned may.