Watch and ward of the oak-boughs, storm-writhen, muscular,
Flushing her grave with compassionate strewments of May,
Screening it close with the summer's green curtains crepuscular,
Sifting the storms of December to feathery spray.

Watch and ward of the memories, tender, imperious,
Preciously folding from din and defilement apart,
Fragrantly veiling in tremulous twilights mysterious
An asphodel nook 'mid the tempests and drought of the heart.