The copse-wood parts, ’tis she who goes, Whom shades obscure and star-light shows, Treading between the hazel rows The fallen sticks, Home, where the careless fire-light glows Along the bricks.
Μονοχρόνος Ἡδόνη.
Pull out my couch across the fire, Let the flames warm me through, Though the pain gnaw my back away There shall be pleasure too!
Search out the desolate garden walks— What though the year be spent— There shall be marigolds enough For the bowl we bought in Ghent:
Fire shall bring out their acrid scents For a walled garden’s sweets, With the melody of Flemish bells And the angles of Flemish streets.
Fire and blossom and dreamful shapes And I, while the long pain stays, Ward off the shot of the savage hours On my rampart of yesterdays.
A SONG IN A LANE
When the Wind comes up the lane And you go down— The elms their spacious branches swing, The hidden hedgelings sing and sing, The nettle draws aside his sting And kindly weeds their shadows fling Across your sunny gown;— When the Wind comes up the lane And you go down.