"By the lake"
di Edith Sitwell (1887-1964)

Across the thick 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' 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.