  I have imagined ... but I have not known What swift, recaptured seasons, lost of late, What long-regretted Aprils yet may wait For each of these beyond his crypted stone. Some Springtime that was all too quickly blown, Some Summer that was roses in his heart, May wake again in every sweetest part, And show themselves familiarly his own. It well may be there are eternal days For every frailest thing, beyond this door, Where roses are not ruined any more, And April with her jonquils stays and stays, Outlingering walls of granite where they blow ... I have imagined ... but I do not know. |
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