When You Went, How Was It You Carried With You My Missal Book Of Fine, Flamboyant Hours? My Book Of Turrets And Of Red-Thorn Bowers, And Skies Of Gold, And Ladies In Bright Tissue? Now Underneath A Blue-Grey Twilight, Heaped Beyond The Withering Snow Of The Shorn Fields Stands Rubble Of Stunted Houses; All Is Reaped And Garnered That The Golden Daylight Yields. Dim Lamps Like Yellow Poppies Glimmer Among The Shadowy Stubble Of The Under-Dusk, As Farther Off The Scythe Of Night Is Swung, And Little Stars Come Rolling From Their Husk. And All The Earth Is Gone Into A Dust Of Greyness Mingled With A Fume Of Gold, Covered With Aged Lichens, Pale With Must, And All The Sky Has Withered And Gone Cold. And So I Sit And Scan The Book Of Grey, Feeling The Shadows Like A Blind Man Reading, All Fearful Lest I Find The Last Words Bleeding With Wounds Of Sunset And The Dying Day.