I will not say that you are dead, but only
Scattered like seed upon the autumn breeze,
Renewing life where all seemed locked and lonely,
Stored in shut buds and inarticulate trees,

So that this earth, this meaningless earth, may yet
Regain some sense for me, because a word
You spoke in passing trembles in the jet
Of the frail fountain in my garden-close,
Because you stopped one day before this rose,
Or I can hear you in the migrant bird
Throating goodbye along the lime-tree aisle,
And feel your hand in mine, and breathe awhile.