But sometimes as you lie on the hearthrug Sleeping in the warmth of the stove, Even through your muddled old canine brain Shapes from the past may rove.

You'll scarcely remember, even in a dream, How we brought home a silly little pup.

With a big square head and little crooked legs That could scarcely bear him up,

But your tail will tap at the memory Of a man whose friend you were, Who was always kind though he called you a naughty dog When he found you on his chair;

Who'd make you face a reproving finger And solemnly lecture you Till your head hung downwards and you looked very sheepish!

And you'll dream of your triumphs too.

Of summer evening chases in the garden When you dodged us all about with a bone: We were three boys, and you were the cleverest, But now we're two alone.

When summer comes again, And the long sunsets fade, We shall have to go on playing the feeble game for two That since the war we've played.

And though you run expectant as you always do To the uniforms we meet, You'll never find w.i.l.l.y among all the soldiers In even the longest street,

Nor in any crowd; yet, strange and bitter thought, Even now were the old words said, If I tried the old trick and said "Where's w.i.l.l.y?"

You would quiver and lift your head,

And your brown eyes would look to ask if I were serious, And wait for the word to spring.

Sleep undisturbed: I sha'n't say that again, You innocent old thing.

I must sit, not speaking, on the sofa, While you lie asleep on the floor; For he's suffered a thing that dogs couldn't dream of, And he won't be coming here any more.

THE LAKE

I am a lake, altered by every wind.

The mild South breathes upon me, and I spread A dance of merry ripples in the sun.

The West comes stormily and I am troubled, My waves conflict and black depths show between them.

Under the East wind bitter I grow and chill, Slate-coloured, desolate, hopeless. But when blows A steady wind from the North my motion ceases, I am frozen smooth and hard; my conquered surface Returns the skies' cold light without a comment.

I make no sound, nor can I; nor can I show What depth I have, if any depth, below.

PARADISE LOST

What hues the sunlight had, how rich the shadows were, The blue and tangled shadows dropped from the crusted branches Of the warped apple-trees upon the orchard gra.s.s.

How heavenly pure the blue of two smooth eggs that lay Light on the rounded mud that lined the thrush's nest: And what a deep delight the spots that speckled them.

And that small tinkling stream that ran from hedge to hedge, Shadowed over by the trees and glinting in the sunbeams, How clear the water was, how flat the beds of sand With travelling bubbles mirrored, each one a golden world To my enchanted eyes. Then earth was new to me.

But now I walk this earth as it were a lumber room, And sometimes live a week, seeing nothing but mere herbs, Mere stones, mere pa.s.sing birds: nor look at anything Long enough to feel its conscious calm a.s.sault: The strength of it, the word, the royal heart of it.

Childhood will not return; but have I not the will To strain my turbid mind that soils all outer things, And, open again to all the miracles of light, To see the world with the eyes of a blind man gaining sight?

ACACIA TREE

All the trees and bushes of the garden Display their bright new green.

But above them all, still bare, The great old acacia stands, His solitary bent black branches stark Against the garden and the sky.

It is as though those other thoughtless shrubs, The winter over, hastened to rejoice And clothe themselves in spring's new finery, Heedless of all the iron time behind them.

But he, older and wiser, stronger and sadder of heart, Remembers still the cruel winter, and knows That in some months that death will come again; And, for a season, lonelily meditates Above his lighter companions' frivolity.

Till some late sunny day when, breaking thought, He'll suddenly yield to the fickle persuasive sun, And over all his rough and writhing boughs And tiniest twigs Will spread a pale green mist of feathery leaf, More delicate, more touching than all the verdure Of the younger, slenderer, gracefuller plants around.

And then, when the leaves have grown Till the boughs can scarcely be seen through their crowded plumes, There will softly glimmer, scattered upon him, blooms, Ivory-white in the green, weightlessly hanging.

AUGUST MOON

(_To F. S._)

In the smooth grey heaven is poised the pale half moon And sheds on the wide grey river a broken reflection.

Out from the low church-tower the boats are moored After the heat of the day, and await the dark.

And here, where the side of the road shelves into the river At the gap where barges load and horses drink, There are no horses. And the river is full And the water stands by the sh.o.r.e and does not lap.

And a barge lies up for the night this side of the island, The bargeman sits in the bows and smokes his pipe And his wife by the cabin stirs. Behind me voices pa.s.s.

Calm sky, calm river: and a few calm things reflected.

And all as yet keep their colours; the island osiers, The ash-white spots of umbelliferous flowers, And the yellow clay of its bank, the barge's brown sails That are furled up the mast and then make a lean triangle To the end of the hoisted boom, and the high dark slips Where they used to build vessels, and now build them no more.

All in the river reflected in quiet colours.

Beyond the river sweeps round in a bend, and is vast, A wide grey level under the motionless sky And the waxing moon, clean cut in the mole-grey sky.

Silence. Time is suspended; that the light fails One would not know were it not for the moon in the sky, And the broken moon in the water, whose fractures tell Of slow broad ripples that otherwise do not show, Maturing imperceptibly from a pale to a deeper gold, A golden half moon in the sky, and broken gold in the water.

In the water, tranquilly severing, joining, gold: Three or four little plates of gold on the river: A little motion of gold between the dark images Of two tall posts that stand in the grey water.

There are voices pa.s.sing, a murmur of quiet voices, A woman's laugh, and children going home.

A whispering couple, leaning over the railings, And, somewhere, a little splash as a dog goes in.

I have always known all this, it has always been, There is no change anywhere, nothing will ever change.

I heard a story, a crazy and tiresome myth.

Listen! behind the twilight a deep low sound Like the constant shutting of very distant doors,

Doors that are letting people over there Out to some other place beyond the end of the sky.