The last year's leaves are on the beech:
The twigs are black; the cold is dry;
To deeps beyond the deepest
The Easter bells enlarge the sky.
O ordered metal clatter-clang!
Is yours the song the angels sang?
You fill my heart with joy and grief -Belief!
Belief!
And unbelief…And, though you tell me I shall die,
You say not how or when or why.
Indifferent the finches sing,
Unheeding roll the lorries past:
What misery will this year
Now spring is in the air at last?
For, sure as blackthorn bursts to snow,
Cancer in some of us will grow,
The tasteful crematorium
Shuts out for some the furnace roar;
But church-bells open on the
Our loneliness, so long and vast.
