Three Years!
I heard the wind in the trees
The stir of the leaves in the white birch tops
Then sat alone with my past till dawn
Crept over the edge of the leas
And a dull red line was drawn
In the East. There memory stops.
We do not follow our lives
As the almanacs run. I lived that night
Three years in the past and three to be....
As foam that the sea-wind drives
My thoughts sped on—three years and three,
Marked by this lock of white.