ACROSS the flat 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's 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