No more summer for Molly and me; There is snow on the tree, And the blackbirds plump large as the rooks are, almost, And the water is hard Where they used to dip bills at the dawn ere her figure was lost To these coasts, now my prison close-barred.

No more planting by Molly and me Where the beds used to be Of sweet-william; no training the clambering rose By the framework of fir Now bowering the pathway, whereon it swings gaily and blows As if calling commendment from her.

No more jauntings by Molly and me To the town by the sea, Or along over Whitesheet to Wynyard's green Gap, Catching Montacute Crest To the right against Sedgmoor, and Corton-Hill's far-distant cap, And Pilsdon and Lewsdon to west.

No more singing by Molly to me In the evenings when she Was in mood and in voice, and the candles were lit, And past the porch-quoin The rays would spring out on the laurels; and dumbledores. .h.i.t On the pane, as if wishing to join.

Where, then, is Molly, who's no more with me?

--As I stand on this lea, Thinking thus, there's a many-flamed star in the air, That tosses a sign That her glance is regarding its face from her home, so that there Her eyes may have meetings with mine.

A BACKWARD SPRING

The trees are afraid to put forth buds, And there is timidity in the gra.s.s; The plots lie gray where gouged by spuds, And whether next week will pa.s.s Free of sly sour winds is the fret of each bush Of barberry waiting to bloom.

Yet the snowdrop's face betrays no gloom, And the primrose pants in its heedless push, Though the myrtle asks if it's worth the fight This year with frost and rime To venture one more time On delicate leaves and b.u.t.tons of white From the selfsame bough as at last year's prime, And never to ruminate on or remember What happened to it in mid-December.

April 1917.

LOOKING ACROSS

I

It is dark in the sky, And silence is where Our laughs rang high; And recall do I That One is out there.

II

The dawn is not nigh, And the trees are bare, And the waterways sigh That a year has drawn by, And Two are out there.

III

The wind drops to die Like the phantom of Care Too frail for a cry, And heart brings to eye That Three are out there.

IV

This Life runs dry That once ran rare And rosy in dye, And fleet the days fly, And Four are out there.

V

Tired, tired am I Of this earthly air, And my wraith asks: Why, Since these calm lie, Are not Five out there?

December 1915.

AT A SEASIDE TOWN IN 1869 (Young Lover's Reverie)

I went and stood outside myself, Spelled the dark sky And ship-lights nigh, And grumbling winds that pa.s.sed thereby.

Then next inside myself I looked, And there, above All, shone my Love, That nothing matched the image of.

Beyond myself again I ranged; And saw the free Life by the sea, And folk indifferent to me.

O 'twas a charm to draw within Thereafter, where But she was; care For one thing only, her hid there!

But so it chanced, without myself I had to look, And then I took More heed of what I had long forsook:

The boats, the sands, the esplanade, The laughing crowd; Light-hearted, loud Greetings from some not ill-endowed;

The evening sunlit cliffs, the talk, Hailings and halts, The keen sea-salts, The band, the Morgenblatter Waltz.

Still, when at night I drew inside Forward she came, Sad, but the same As when I first had known her name.

Then rose a time when, as by force, Outwardly wooed By contacts crude, Her image in abeyance stood . . .

At last I said: This outside life Shall not endure; I'll seek the pure Thought-world, and bask in her allure.

Myself again I crept within, Scanned with keen care The temple where She'd shone, but could not find her there.

I sought and sought. But O her soul Has not since thrown Upon my own One beam! Yea, she is gone, is gone.

From an old note.

THE GLIMPSE

She sped through the door And, following in haste, And stirred to the core, I entered hot-faced; But I could not find her, No sign was behind her.

"Where is she?" I said: - "Who?" they asked that sat there; "Not a soul's come in sight."

- "A maid with red hair."

- "Ah." They paled. "She is dead.

People see her at night, But you are the first On whom she has burst In the keen common light."

It was ages ago, When I was quite strong: I have waited since,--O, I have waited so long!

- Yea, I set me to own The house, where now lone I dwell in void rooms Booming hollow as tombs!

But I never come near her, Though nightly I hear her.

And my cheek has grown thin And my hair has grown gray With this waiting therein; But she still keeps away!