And when there is no word more that I can say,
No last defence for my frail, lost cities of thought,
Still the trees I have planted here will be wind-blown and gay
And a surer way to the loveliness blind eyes sought.
When hope as body of mine shall be fallen in dust
Still the full blue cups of a jacaranda tree
Were a flagon of beauty the tired heart might trust,
There might be some content in the rosemary.
And the tiny leaves of a maple shall glisten wet,
Or a young laburnum free long tresses of gold,
For the vanquished man shall leave his impress yet.
On that beloved country he could not hold.