Nor urgent writs to sup or dine,
Nor pledges in the roseate wine.
For loud acclaim he does not care
By the august or rich or fair,
Nor for smart pilgrims from afar,
Curious on where his hauntings are.
But soon or later, when you hear
That he has doffed this wrinkled gear,
Some evening, at the first star-ray,
Come to his graveside, pause and say:
‘Whatever his message his to tell
Two thoughtful women loved him well.’
Stand and say that amid the dim:
It will be praise enough for him.
That we listened to here those longLong years ago.A pleasing marvel is howA strain of such rapturous roteShould have gone on thus till nowunchanged in a note!–But its not the selfsame bird.–No: perished to dust is he….As also are those who heardThat song with me.
Ere the barn-cocks sayNight is growing gray,To hazards whence no tears can win us;What of the faith and fire within usMen who march away?Is it a purblind prank, O think you,Friend with the musing eyeWho watch us stepping by,With doubt and dolorous sigh?Can much pondering so hoodwink you!Is it a purblind prank, O think you,Friend…
But she bode wi’ a thirtover uncle, and heSwore by noon and by night that her goodman should beNaibor Sweatley–a gaffer oft weak at the kneeFrom taking o’ sommat more cheerful than tea–Who tranted, and moved people’s things.She cried, ‘O pray pity me!’ Nought would he hear;Then with wild rainy eyes she obeyed,She chid when…
Here was the former doorWhere the dead feet walked in.She sat here in her chair,Smiling into the fire;He who played stood there,Bowing it higher and higher.Childlike, I danced in a dream;Blessings emblazoned that day;Everything glowed with a gleam;Yet we were looking away!
Bough to bough cannot youBide out your day?When the rains skim and skip,Why mar sweet comradeship,Blighting with poison-dripNeighborly spray?Heart-halt and spirit-lame,City-opprest,Unto this wood I cameAs to a nest;Dreaming that sylvan peaceOffered the harrowed ease–Nature a soft releaseFrom men’s unrest.But, having entered in,Great growths and smallShow them to men akin–Combatants all!Sycamore shoulders oak,Bines the slim sapling…
That the City lanes have uprolled,Behind whose webby fold on foldLike a waning taperThe street-lamp glimmers cold.A messenger’s knock cracks smartly,Flashed news is in her handOf meaning it dazes to understandThough shaped so shortly:He–has fallen–in the far South Land . . .II–The Irony‘Tis the morrow; the fog hangs thicker,The postman nears and goes:A letter is…
