57355: Spring 1916

<p dir="ltr"> Slow, rigid, is this masquerade<br> That passes as through granite air;<br> Heavily---heavily passes.<br> What has she fed on? Who her table laid<br> Through the three seasons? What forbidden<br> fare<br> Ruined her as a mortal lass is?<br> I played with her two years ago,<br> Who might be now her own sister in stone,<br> So altered from her May mien,<br> When round pink neck a necklace of warm<br> snow<br> Laughed to her throat where my mouth's<br> touch had gone.<br> How is this, ruined Queen?<br> Who lured her vivid beauty so<br> To be that strained chilled thing that moves<br> So ghastly midst her young brood<br> Of pregnant shoots that she for men did<br> grow?<br> Where are the strong men who made these<br> their loves?<br> Spring! God pity your mood!</p>