Moments of Vision and Miscellaneous Verses Part 7

And where were hills of blue, Blind drifts of vapour blow, And the names of former dwellers few, If any, people know, And instead of a voice that called, "Come in, Dears,"

Time calls, "Pa.s.s below!"

THE OCCULTATION

When the cloud shut down on the morning shine, And darkened the sun, I said, "So ended that joy of mine Years back begun."

But day continued its l.u.s.trous roll In upper air; And did my late irradiate soul Live on somewhere?

LIFE LAUGHS ONWARD

Rambling I looked for an old abode Where, years back, one had lived I knew; Its site a dwelling duly showed, But it was new.

I went where, not so long ago, The sod had riven two b.r.e.a.s.t.s asunder; Daisies throve gaily there, as though No grave were under.

I walked along a terrace where Loud children gambolled in the sun; The figure that had once sat there Was missed by none.

Life laughed and moved on unsubdued, I saw that Old succ.u.mbed to Young: 'Twas well. My too regretful mood Died on my tongue.

THE PEACE-OFFERING

It was but a little thing, Yet I knew it meant to me Ease from what had given a sting To the very birdsinging Latterly.

But I would not welcome it; And for all I then declined O the regrettings infinite When the night-processions flit Through the mind!

"SOMETHING TAPPED"

Something tapped on the pane of my room When there was never a trace Of wind or rain, and I saw in the gloom My weary Beloved's face.

"O I am tired of waiting," she said, "Night, morn, noon, afternoon; So cold it is in my lonely bed, And I thought you would join me soon!"

I rose and neared the window-gla.s.s, But vanished thence had she: Only a pallid moth, alas, Tapped at the pane for me.

August 1913.

THE WOUND

I climbed to the crest, And, fog-festooned, The sun lay west Like a crimson wound:

Like that wound of mine Of which none knew, For I'd given no sign That it pierced me through.

A MERRYMAKING IN QUESTION

"I will get a new string for my fiddle, And call to the neighbours to come, And partners shall dance down the middle Until the old pewter-wares hum: And we'll sip the mead, cyder, and rum!"

From the night came the oddest of answers: A hollow wind, like a ba.s.soon, And headstones all ranged up as dancers, And cypresses droning a croon, And gurgoyles that mouthed to the tune.

"I SAID AND SANG HER EXCELLENCE"

(Fickle Lover's Song)

I said and sang her excellence: They called it laud undue.

(Have your way, my heart, O!) Yet what was homage far above The plain deserts of my olden Love Proved verity of my new.

"She moves a sylph in picture-land, Where nothing frosts the air:"

(Have your way, my heart, O!) "To all winged pipers overhead She is known by shape and song," I said, Conscious of licence there.

I sang of her in a dim old hall Dream-built too fancifully, (Have your way, my heart, O!) But lo, the ripe months chanced to lead My feet to such a hall indeed, Where stood the very She.

Strange, startling, was it then to learn I had glanced down unborn time, (Have your way, my heart, O!) And prophesied, whereby I knew That which the years had planned to do In warranty of my rhyme.

BY RUSHY-POND.

A JANUARY NIGHT (1879)

The rain smites more and more, The east wind snarls and sneezes; Through the joints of the quivering door The water wheezes.

The tip of each ivy-shoot Writhes on its neighbour's face; There is some hid dread afoot That we cannot trace.