THE HAWTHORN HATH A 

 DEATHLY SMELL' 



T 



HE flowers of the field 



Have a sweet smell ; 

 Meadowsweet, tansy, thyme. 



And faint-heart pimpernel ; 

 But sweeter even than these. 



The silver of the may 

 Wreathed is with incense for 



The Judgment Day. 



An apple, a child, dust, 



When falls the evening rain, 

 Wild briar's spiced leaves. 



Breathe memories again ; 

 With further memory fraught, 



The silver of the may 

 Wreathed is with incense for 



The Judgment Day. 



Eyes of all loveliness — 



Shadow of strange delight, 

 Even as a flower fades 



Must thou from sight ; 

 But oh, o'er thy grave's mound. 



Till come the Judgment Day, 

 Wreathed shall with incense be 



Thy sharp-thomed may. 



WALTER DE LA MARE. 



46 



