Holiday

Some dusk within a silver wood,

A narrow wood of the wild pear,

A hundred trees in a windy rood,

I shall be tall, I shall be fair.

Wild pear will strew me foot and head

With white, like samite wrought of old

For troubled women lying-dead

In falling towns, curious with gold.

The pools will show me my changed face,

With all its April back again,

A silver thing in a silver place

And yet unsung by singing men.

At dusk, it will be very good

To have not any tears to weep;

At last, within a wild pear wood,

To turn to silence and to sleep.