Page:The Muse in Arms, Osborn (ed), 1917.djvu/169

Rh Where, at the portals of the day,

The hours ever dance in ring, a silvern-footed throng,

While Time looks on,

And seraphs stand

Choiring an endless strain

On either hand.

Thou canst return no more;

Not as the happy time of spring

Comes after winter burgeoning

On wood and wold in folds of living green, for thou art dead.

Our tears we shed

In vain, for thou

Dost pace another shore,

Untroubled now.