"When I come back uncloak your gloom, And let in lovely day; Then the long dark as of the tomb Can well be thrust away With sweet things I shall have to practise, And you will have to say!"

Begun 1871: finished -

AT MIDDLE-FIELD GATE IN FEBRUARY

The bars are thick with drops that show As they gather themselves from the fog Like silver b.u.t.tons ranged in a row, And as evenly s.p.a.ced as if measured, although They fall at the feeblest jog.

They load the leafless hedge hard by, And the blades of last year's gra.s.s, While the fallow ploughland turned up nigh In raw rolls, clammy and clogging lie - Too clogging for feet to pa.s.s.

How dry it was on a far-back day When straws hung the hedge and around, When amid the sheaves in amorous play In curtained bonnets and light array Bloomed a bevy now underground!

BOCKHAMPTON LANE.

THE YOUTH WHO CARRIED A LIGHT

I saw him pa.s.s as the new day dawned, Murmuring some musical phrase; Horses were drinking and floundering in the pond, And the tired stars thinned their gaze; Yet these were not the spectacles at all that he conned, But an inner one, giving out rays.

Such was the thing in his eye, walking there, The very and visible thing, A close light, displacing the gray of the morning air, And the tokens that the dark was taking wing; And was it not the radiance of a purpose rare That might ripe to its accomplishing?

What became of that light? I wonder still its fate!

Was it quenched ere its full apogee?

Did it struggle frail and frailer to a beam emaciate?

Did it thrive till matured in verity?

Or did it travel on, to be a new young dreamer's freight, And thence on infinitely?

1915.

THE HEAD ABOVE THE FOG

Something do I see Above the fog that sheets the mead, A figure like to life indeed, Moving along with spectre-speed, Seen by none but me.

O the vision keen! - Tripping along to me for love As in the flesh it used to move, Only its hat and plume above The evening fog-fleece seen.

In the day-fall wan, When nighted birds break off their song, Mere ghostly head it skims along, Just as it did when warm and strong, Body seeming gone.

Such it is I see Above the fog that sheets the mead - Yea, that which once could breathe and plead! - Skimming along with spectre-speed To a last tryst with me.

OVERLOOKING THE RIVER STOUR

The swallows flew in the curves of an eight Above the river-gleam In the wet June's last beam: Like little crossbows animate The swallows flew in the curves of an eight Above the river-gleam.

Planing up shavings of crystal spray A moor-hen darted out From the bank thereabout, And through the stream-shine ripped his way; Planing up shavings of crystal spray A moor-hen darted out.

Closed were the kingcups; and the mead Dripped in monotonous green, Though the day's morning sheen Had shown it golden and honeybee'd; Closed were the kingcups; and the mead Dripped in monotonous green.

And never I turned my head, alack, While these things met my gaze Through the pane's drop-drenched glaze, To see the more behind my back . . .

O never I turned, but let, alack, These less things hold my gaze!

THE MUSICAL BOX

Lifelong to be Seemed the fair colour of the time; That there was standing shadowed near A spirit who sang to the gentle chime Of the self-struck notes, I did not hear, I did not see.

Thus did it sing To the mindless lyre that played indoors As she came to listen for me without: "O value what the nonce outpours - This best of life--that shines about Your welcoming!"

I had slowed along After the torrid hours were done, Though still the posts and walls and road Flung back their sense of the hot-faced sun, And had walked by Stourside Mill, where broad Stream-lilies throng.

And I descried The dusky house that stood apart, And her, white-muslined, waiting there In the porch with high-expectant heart, While still the thin mechanic air Went on inside.

At whiles would flit Swart bats, whose wings, be-webbed and tanned, Whirred like the wheels of ancient clocks: She laughed a hailing as she scanned Me in the gloom, the tuneful box Intoning it.

Lifelong to be I thought it. That there watched hard by A spirit who sang to the indoor tune, "O make the most of what is nigh!"

I did not hear in my dull soul-swoon - I did not see.

ON STURMINSTER FOOT-BRIDGE (ONOMATOPOEIC)

Reticulations creep upon the slack stream's face When the wind skims irritably past, The current clucks smartly into each hollow place That years of flood have scrabbled in the pier's sodden base; The floating-lily leaves rot fast.

On a roof stand the swallows ranged in wistful waiting rows, Till they arrow off and drop like stones Among the eyot-withies at whose foot the river flows; And beneath the roof is she who in the dark world shows As a lattice-gleam when midnight moans.

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