Some dusk within a silver wood,
A narrow wood of the wild pear,
A hundred trees in a windy rood,
I shall be tall, I shall be fair.

Wild pear will strew me foot and head
With white, like samite wrought of old
For troubled women lying-dead
In falling towns, curious with gold.

The pools will show me my changed face,
With all its April back again,
A silver thing in a silver place
And yet unsung by singing men.

At dusk, it will be very good
To have not any tears to weep;
At last, within a wild pear wood,
To turn to silence and to sleep.