No Snow Yet (1959-60)

The bare-headed mountain is weeping at the grave,
For the dead skies of summer,
Dark, mourning and brave,
For the snows have not yet aged his barren head.

Summer's knell is rung by the clear ground
Which trembles as the last leaf falls into the tomb,
Crossing the sorrowing gloom;
There on the earth a dead butterfly is found.

The church tower stifles its grief
And twists its weather-cock in vain
To hide the pounding bell within its brain.

The gesturing trees have put off their clothing in turn;
And we remember at their roots
Wild strawberries that will not return.

D. CUMMING, L.VI.

The lamp-post-I can see it there,

Tall and straight in the cold night air,

Beaming forth with a clear bright light.

Dispersing the shadows of the night.

A head of glass, a body of steel,

An eye so bright that it might be real ;

A man-made Cyclops to show the way

To travellers on the Queen's highway.

When daylight comes, no life does warm

The depths of your metallic form ;

No twinkle in that eye so bright

Until the day gives way to night.

D. WALLIS, IIIA.