By the Lake

By Dame Edith Sitwell (1887-1964)

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.