From the orange-windowed tavern near
A song some ancient lover had—
When stars and longing made him mad—
Fashioned from wonder at his dear,
Rang out. Yet none there moves a limb
To see such stars as passioned him.
The loth moon left the twigs and gazed
Full-fronted at the road, the stream,
That all but tiniest tunes adream
Stilled, held breath at last amazed.
The farmers from their revel came;
But no stars saw, and felt no flame.
“ANNIE LAURIE”
(To H. N. H.)
The high barn’s lit by many a guttering flare
Of flickering candle, dangerous—(hence forbidden)—
To warm soft straw, whereby the cold floor’s hidden,
On which we soon shall rest without a care.
War is forgotten. Gossip fills the air
Of home, and laughter sounds beyond the midden
Under the stars, where Youth makes Joy unchidden
Of gods or men, and mocks at sorrow there.
But hark! what sudden pure untainted passion
Seizes us now, and stills the garrulous?
A song of old immortal dedication
To Beauty’s service and one woman’s heart.
No tears we show, no sign of flame in us
This hour of stars and music set apart.
THE BATTALION IS NOW ON REST
(To “La Comtesse”)
Walking the village street, to watch the stars and find
Some peace like the old peace, some soothe for soul and mind;
The noise of laughter strikes me as I move on my way
Towards England—Westward—and the last glow of day.
And here is the end of houses. I turn on my heel,
And stay where those voices a moment made me feel
As I were on Cotswold, with nothing else to do
Than stare at the old houses, to taste the night-dew;
To answer friendly greetings from rough voices kind....
Oh, one may try for ever to be calm and resigned,
A red blind at evening sets the poor heart on fire—
Or a child’s face, a sunset—with the old hot desire.
PHOTOGRAPHS
(To Two Scots Lads)
Lying in dug-outs, joking idly, wearily;
Watching the candle guttering in the draught;
Hearing the great shells go high over us, eerily
Singing; how often have I turned over, and laughed