By the lake

Across the thick and the pastel snow

Two people go...

"And do you remember

When last we wandered this shore?"

... "Ah, No!

For it is cold-hearted December."

"Dead, the leaves that like asses' ears

hung on the trees

When last we wandered and

squandered joy here;

Now Midas your husband

will listen for these

Whispers - these tears for joy's bier..."

And as they walk,

they seem tall pagodas;

And all the ropes

let down from the cloud

Ring the hard cold bell-buds upon

the trees-codas

Of overtones ecstasies,

grown for love's shroud.