Middle-Age Enthusiasms

To M. H.

 We passed where flag and flower
  Signalled a jocund throng;
  We said: "Go to, the hour
  Is apt!"--and joined the song;
And, kindling, laughed at life and care,
Although we knew no laugh lay there.

  We walked where shy birds stood
  Watching us, wonder-dumb;
  Their friendship met our mood;
  We cried: "We'll often come:
We'll come morn, noon, eve, everywhen!"
- We doubted we should come again.

  We joyed to see strange sheens
  Leap from quaint leaves in shade;
  A secret light of greens
  They'd for their pleasure made.
We said: "We'll set such sorts as these!"
- We knew with night the wish would cease.

  "So sweet the place," we said,
  "Its tacit tales so dear,
  Our thoughts, when breath has sped,
  Will meet and mingle here!" . . .
"Words!" mused we. "Passed the mortal door,
Our thoughts will reach this nook no more."

A Backward Spring

The trees are afraid to put forth buds,
And there is timidity in the grass;
The plots lie gray where gouged by spuds,
    And whether next week will pass
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 buttons 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.

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!

Song from Heine

I scanned her picture dreaming,

Till each dear line and hue

Was imaged, to my seeming,

As if it lived anew.

Her lips began to borrow

Their former wondrous smile;

Her fair eyes, faint with sorrow,

Grew sparkling as erstwhile.

Such tears as often ran not

Ran then, my love, for thee;

And O, believe I cannot

That thou are lost to me!