Page:Poems by Isaac Rosenberg (1922).djvu/161

 Ah me, if they had left a sepulchre; But no—the light hath changed not, and in it Of its same colour stir Spirits I see not but phantasmed feel to flit.

Air, legioned with such, stirreth, So that I seem to draw them with my breath, Ghouls that devour each joy they do to death, Strange glimmering griefs and sorrowing silences Bearing dead flowers unseen whose charnel smell Great awe to my sense is Even in the rose-time when all else is well.