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The wind
flapped loose, the wind was still,
Shaken out dead
from tree and hill:
I had walked on at the wind's
will, -
I sat now, for the wind was still.
Between my knees my forehead was, -
My lips, drawn
in, said not Alas!
My hair was over in the grass,
My naked ears heard the day pass.
My eyes, wide
open, had the run
Of some ten weeds to fix upon;
Among those few, out of the sun,
The woodspurge
flowered, three cups in one.
From perfect grief
there need not be
Wisdom or even memory:
One thing
then learnt remains to me, -
The woodspurge has a
cup of three.
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