Thanks to this, I've been reading Mew again. She gets better and better. Here's a poem of quiet despair:
May 1915
Let us remember Spring will come again
To the scorched, blackened woods, where the wounded trees
Wait with their old wise patience for the heavenly rain,
Sure of the sky: sure of the sea to send its healing breeze,
Sure of the sun, and even as to these
Surely the Spring, when God shall please,
Will come again like a divine surprise
To those who sit today with their great Dead, hands in their hands, eyes in their eyes
At one with Love, at one with Grief: blind to the scattered things and changing skies.
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