My soul lies cracked; and

My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings
Green lilac buds appear that won’t survive
Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand
Along the walls are only empty niches,
That this mud draws on the stone.
Your gloved hands covering your lips’ good-bye
With sun’s warmth wasted on a stone,
Away, my songs, must we go
Astonished that you have returned to go
Homeward into the howling woods, although
"Be off!" say Winter’s snows;
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates
The surge of swirling wind defines
Green lilac buds appear that won’t survive
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
It’s snowing, it’s returning to a town
Right, and appears from here to be overcome