Listen. With faint dry sound, Like steps of passing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees And fall.

These be Three silent things: The falling snow...the hour Before the dawn...the mouth of one Just dead.

I know Not these my hands And yet I think there was A woman like me once had hands Like these.

The old Old winds that blew When chaos was, what do They tell the clattered trees that I Should weep?

Sweet April-time - O cruel April-time! Year after year returning, with a brow Of promise, and red lips with longing paled, And backward-hidden hands that clutc…

Yes. I remember Adlestrop - The name, because one afternoon Of heat the express-train drew up there Unwontedly. It was late June.

Across the silent stream Where the dream-shadows go, From the dim blue Hill of Dream I have heard the west wind blow.