Will these be always great things,
Great things to me? . . .
Let it befall that One will call,
“Soul, I have need of thee:”
What then? Joy-jaunts, impassioned flings,
Love, and its ecstasy,
Will always have been great things,
Great things to me!
THE CHIMES
That morning when I trod the town
The twitching chimes of long renown
Played out to me
The sweet Sicilian sailors’ tune,
And I knew not if late or soon
My day would be:
A day of sunshine beryl-bright
And windless; yea, think as I might,
I could not say,
Even to within years’ measure, when
One would be at my side who then
Was far away.
When hard utilitarian times
Had stilled the sweet Saint-Peter’s chimes
I learnt to see
That bale may spring where blisses are,
And one desired might be afar
Though near to me.
THE FIGURE IN THE SCENE
It pleased her to step in front and sit
Where the cragged slope was green,
While I stood back that I might pencil it
With her amid the scene;
Till it gloomed and rained;
But I kept on, despite the drifting wet
That fell and stained
My draught, leaving for curious quizzings yet
The blots engrained.
And thus I drew her there alone,
Seated amid the gauze
Of moisture, hooded, only her outline shown,
With rainfall marked across.
—Soon passed our stay;
Yet her rainy form is the Genius still of the spot,
Immutable, yea,
Though the place now knows her no more, and has known her not
Ever since that day.
From an old note.