Sir Peter Courtney Quennell

See, I have bent thee by thy saffron hair O most strange masker, Towards my face, thy face so full of eyes

While I have vision, while the glowing-bodied, Drunken with light, untroubled clouds, with all this cold sphered sky, Are flushed above trees where the dew falls secretly,

So she became a bird, and bird-like danced On a long sloe-bough, treading the silver blossom With a bird's lovely feet;

As wind-drowned scents that bring to other hills Disquieting memories of silences, Broad silences beyond the memory;