The world which credits what is done is cold to all that might have been.
The white flower of a blameless life.
And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaff well meant for grain.
It may be that no life is found, Which only to one engine bound Falls off, but cycles always round.
I have led her home, my love, my only friend. There is none like her, none, And never yet so warmly ran my blood, And sweetly, on and on Calming itself to the long-wished for end, Full to the banks, close on the prom- ised good.
The year is dying in the night.