Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1921/Exit

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EXIT
I shall go in the wind Down Islip road,And no one shall mind The traveler's load.
A slender tree Round the bend to the SouthShall beckon to me In the wind's mouth,
And the white-lipped frost That clings to the groundKnows the dream you have lost Shall never be found.
The slope of it lingers In driven rain,But the earth's gray fingers, Mold it again!
In purple bud And in fretted stone,In channeled blood And in crumbled bone—
Mold it again In flesh and in flowers,'Twixt a rain and a rain Of April Showers.
The CenturyEdward J. O'Brien
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