On the high frosty fields afoot at dawn I start:—with rarest mist the vale below Brims like a milky cup, the elm-tops show As floating islets, not a sound is borne Up from the river, shadowy on the lawn Two monstrous pheasants fight and strangely low The white sun peers between a spectral row Of quicksets spanned by spider-webs untorn. And the return:—the high sun over-head, The fair sleek fallows spread before my sight, The garrulous clear waters in their bed Of greenest sedge, the multitudinous flight Of little wings—O miracle of light— The self-same track, with all the shadows fled.
THE NUNS’ CHAPEL
Now night hath fallen on the little town, Lights glimmer from each ancient window-pane, On darkling chimney-cowl and weather-vane The buoyant moon looks equitably down; The portico’s be-shadowed columns frown At the market’s verge, and the long lights again Stream from the inn,—I to the convent lane Pass betwixt looming walls and ilex brown. The little door’s ajar, the moon in the porch Gleams on the water-stoup, “In Nomine Patris et Filii....” God’s rosy light Plays on its swinging chain, the auguster torch Of prayer hath burnt to fragrance here all day Whose ashes lie about His feet to-night.
THE SNARE
Dear, the delightful world I see Holdeth its attributes for thee, Nor on my heart doth earth intrude Save to thy grace it hath some rude Inadequate similitude.
So lilac leaves the showers bespatter, The dropping acorns’ elfin patter— These are but echoes of thy feet, Naked or shod, how fair and fleet On oaken board or paven street.
The burnish of thy hair is far Dearer to me than sunsets are— When, from sheer Compton looking west, Such gilded after-glows invest The twilight on the Vale of Test.
Grey mirrors to the blue of the skies Are the fringed candours of your eyes— So hoof-prints in the grassy lane, Goblets full-brimmed of Heaven, contain Celestial leavings of the rain.