The flowers left thick at nightfall in the wood, This Eastertide call into the men, Now far from home, who, with their sweethearts, should have gathered them and will do never again...

Head and Bottle

The downs will lose the sun, white alyssum
lose the bees'hum;
But head and bottle tilted back in the cart
will never part.
Till I am cold as midnight and all my hours
are beeless flowers.
He neither sees, nor hears, nor smells, nor thinks,
But, only drinks.
Quit in the yard where tree trunks do not lie
more quietly.