Oh, changing time; oh, sun and birds
How little changing. In the Square
This winter morning I have met
Old Egypt's grandson, stopped him there,
And "Sir, you will outlive me yet,"
Said I politely, "mark my words."
THE MOON IN JANUARY
Sharp and straight are the scaffold poles,
Black on a delicate sky;
Upright they stand, across they lie,
In changeless angles fixed and bound,
The sunset light in mist is drowned,
And the moon has risen high;
High above houses, high and clear
Above the scaffolding,
So exquisite, so faint a thing,
The young moon's silver curve that shines
Above the fretting, tangled lines,
With the old moon in her ring.
The young moon holds the old black moon
In a sky all grey with frost,
By cable wires barred and crossed,
And below, the haze of purplish-brown
Smokes upward from the lamp-lit town
Where outlines all are lost.
The pure pale arch of windless sky,
The pure bright young moon's thread,
These wide and still are overhead;
And in the dusky glare below
The lamps go dotting, row on row,
And there is movement, to and fro,
Where far the pavements spread.
AN AUGUST NIGHT, 1914
The light has gone from the West; the wind has gone
From the quiet trees in the Park;
From the houses the open windows yellowly shine,
The streets are softly dark;