Rondeau

I remember it well:
The sound of the bells
The holier shades
Through forest and glades
That drowned our mourning knells;

Those infantile hells
Of masking our swells
Of sadness or rage--
I remember them well.

Yet for all I can tell
There was always the spell
Of meandering made
Meditation by shade
Or the pine-needle smell.
I remember it well.