by
Kenneth Morris
HERE, by the moonlit ruined tower
The Men of Old sang such farewells.
A ghost of music yet enspells
This keen stillness chilled with the moon.
Their thought still breathes here, night and noon:
Large pond-lilies Spring by Spring.
Crimson-globed and creamy blue,
Loll on the old moatwater clear: –
Olden will and dream aflower.
And now the white moon shines anew
On farewells said here, and distills
New curious witchcraft 0′ er these hills,
Beauty pricked and tinged with pain ….
Thought endureth, year on year:
Whispering, low-perishing,
Here as long as Autumns wane
Night by night the winds will sing
Our farewells through the wan bamboo …
