The hawthorn hath a deathly smell

The flowers of the field

Have a sweet smell;

Meadowsweet, tansy, thyme,

And faint-heart pimpernel;

But sweeter even than these,

The silver of the may

Wreathed is with incense for

The Judgment Day.

An apple, a child, dust,

When falls the evening rain,

Wild briar's spicèd leaves,

Breathe memories again;

With further memory fraught,

The silver of the may

Wreathed is with incense for

The Judgment Day.

Eyes of all loveliness --

Shadow of strange delight,

Even as a flower fades

Must thou from sight;

But oh, o'er thy grave's mound,

Till come the Judgment Day,

Wreathed shall with incense be

Thy sharp-thorned may.