  At peace with every sweet remembered thing You lie; with woodland song that died long years Ago; with pebbles washed ashore and fears Released and feathers broken from the wing That beat its westward flight towards the sun And some far nest beside some unknown sea: I would not answer when you called to me, And now my thought of you is never done. This starlit road with its dark towering pines, Its dust of misty pollen blown in cloud From field to field, its silences, its shroud Of clinging dark and all its trailing vines White with moonshine and the priestly dew, We shared. Tonight I travel it alone,— Alone I go towards that glistening stone Which marks your rest, my thought a prayer for you. Singing the water rushes past your quiet grave Beneath this little town whose ancient name Suggests the fair collegiate dream and fame Of Oxford and her clustered towers. With wave The river winds a garland for your rest— The woven sound of grieving without end. To you I bring the memory of a friend And lay these words on your remembered breast. |
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