The daisies whiten the warm grass :
I see the sun, a shadow, pass:
And I forget that winter was.
The black rooks call across the sky:
The black-robed scholar-priests go by:
About the grass pale children lie.
All sorrowful and cloistered things,
As if this sunlight were the Spring's,
Desire the ecstasy of wings.
And even my soul, long used to grope
Within its self-entangled scope,
Dreams of the opening wings of hope.
