The wind flapped loose， the wind was still，

    Shaken out dead from tree and hill：

    I had walked on at the wind's will，

    I sat now， for the wind was still.

    Between my knees my forehead was，

    My lips， drawn¹ in， said not Alas²！

    My hair was over in the grass，

    My naked ears heard the day pass.

    My eyes， wide open， had the run

    Of some ten weeds to fix upon；

    Among those few， out of the sun，

    The woodspurge flowered， three cups in one.

    From perfect grief there need not be

    Wisdom or even memory：

    One thing then learnt remains³ to me，

    The woodspurge has a cup of three.