Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/358



sea gives her shells to the shingle, The earth gives her streams to the sea; They are many, but my gift is single, My verses, the firstfruits of me, Let the wind take the green and the grey leaf, Cast forth without fruit upon air; Take rose-leaf and vine-leaf and bay-leaf Blown loose from the hair.

The night shakes them round me in legions, Dawn drives them before her like dreams; Time sheds them like snows on strange regions, Swept shoreward on infinite streams; Leaves pallid and sombre and ruddy, Dead fruits of the fugitive years; Some stained as with wine and made bloody, And some as with tears.