Witter Bynner

I HAD not till today been sure,

But now I know:

Dead men and women come and go

Under the pure

Sequestering snow.

And under the autumnal fern

And carmine bush,

Under the shadow of a thrush,

They move and learn;

And in the rush

Of all the mountain-brooks that wake

With upward fling

To brush and break the loosening cling

Of ice, they shake

The air with Spring!

I had not till today been sure,

But now I know:

Dead youths and maidens come and go

Below the lure

And undertow

Of cities, under every street

Of empty stress,

Or heart of an adulteress:

Each loud retreat

Of lovelessness.

For only by the stir we make

In passing near

Are we confused, and cannot hear

The ways they take

Certain and clear.

Today I happened in a place

Where all around

Was silence; until, underground,

I heard a pace,

A happy sound.

And people whom I there could see

Tenderly smiled,

While under a wood of silent, wild

Antiquity

Wandered a child,

Leading his mother by the hand,

Happy and slow,

Teaching his mother where to go

Under the snow.

Not even now I understand—

I only know.