| In Manchester Square |
| (In Memoriam T.H.) |
| |
The paralytic man has dropped in death
The crossing-sweeper’s brush to which he clung,
One-handed, twisted, dwarfed, scanted of breath,
Although his hair was young.
|
| |
I saw this year the winter vines of France,
Dwarfed, twisted, goblins in the frosty drouth—
Gnarled, crippled, blackened little stems askance
On long hills to the South.
|
| |
Great green and golden hands of leaves ere long
Shall proffer clusters in that vineyard wide.
And O his might, his sweet, his wine, his song,
His stature, since he died!
|