Classic Poem

Though the grey year scatter these deathy leaves,
Black and blood-red, upon the withered grass,
And the frail swallow fly South and weary bees
Hush their dull music, I think not all shall pass.

I think that in the swift white mind's brain
Neurons flash images of a world
Undead and deathless, burgeoning again.
I think that Spring will come this way, unfurled.

I shall not ask what answer will be given
To proud questionings, raised when men are lonely
In cold house, nor shall I now be shriven:
The Spring I seek is in a new face only.

A shrunken leaf settles: comes a face
With a quick sculpture of a fresh grace.