And the leaves fall. . . .
Is there a far faint life
Whispers with blood-choked voice thy name?
Whispers but once—no more?
Then weep ye now, O Mothers!
And, Maidens, weep!
O England, rend the raiment of thy wealth:
Tear the soft vesture of thy pride!
Let the tears fall and be not comforted!
In all their youth they went for thee;
In all their strength they died for thee;
And so they fell,
As the leaves fall. . . . .
Yet they say you are dead?
Ask of the trees. Perchance they hear
A distant murmuring of pulsing sap.
Perchance in their dim minds they see
Pale curlèd leaves that strive to greet the sun.
Perchance they know of yellow daffodils
Will dance again.
Yet the leaves fall . . .
And yonder through the mist is Michael's star—
Saint Michael with his angel-host!
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