| I | When old Anacreon sang the wine Which made his utterance divine, Perchance the eyes he gazed into Were lucent as the sun-touched dew — Brighter, perchance, than yours; and yet Eyes like yours, smoulderingly lit With the calm passion of the spirit. No young Greek maid did e'er inherit.... Ah! twenty years are not enough To mould to such celestial stuff A soul, my dear, as yours is moulded, Wherein all dreams of life lie folded, And through whose doors a friend may slip Into serene companionship. |
| II | She came, as one who in the light Of many a sunset hour had grown Half sad, half glad, because the night So soon about her would be thrown. With melancholy ages old, And laughter fragrant as the Spring, She came, and in her low voice told Tales of rich joy and sorrowing. She led me to her garden, fair With flowers I love and whispering trees, And to her arbour sheltered there In peace, all redolent of peace. With rapt delight of halting speech, And commune, such as those have felt Whose minds move silent each by each. Whose hopes are kindred hopes, we dwelt. But though with love and dreams of gold She wove rare charms about that nest, My heart lay aching still, and cold: I could not rest, I could not rest. |
| III | The birds are quiet on the boughs, And quiet are my slumbering trees.... O come a short while to my house And share these evening silences. Come! for the sunset's weary smile Has faded; night is failing deep: And we will rest a little while And talk together ere we sleep. |
| IV | It may be that in future years, When life serenely yields its best Of steadfast joy and fleeting tears, And, blessing, you move on, thrice blest, — Amid glad tasks of love and home, And fond caresses every day, A softened thought of me shall come And fly to reach me when you pray; Then I shall tremble where I sit Unhelped through those gray years to be, As, like a benediction, it Shall flood in sweetness over me. |
[Margaret Sackville]
The Return
Last night, within our little town
The Dead came marching through;
In a long line, like living men,
Just as they used to do.
Only, so long a line it seemed
You'd think the Judgment Day
Had dawned, to see them slowly pass,
With faces turned one way.
They walked no longer foe and foe
But brother bound to brother;
Poor men, common men they walked
Friendly to one another.
Just as in life they might have done
Who stabbed and slew instead....
So quietly and evenly they walked
These million gentle dead.