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147. AT NIGHT
To W. M.
Home, home from the horizon far and clear,
Hither the soft wings sweep;
Flocks of the memories of the day draw near
The dovecote doors of sleep.
Oh, which are they that come through sweetest light
Of all these homing birds?
Which with the straightest and the swiftest flight?
Your words to me, your words!
Alice Meynell
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INDEX OF FIRST LINES
PAGE
A kiss, a word of thanks, away (H. C. Beeching). . . . . . . 142
A naked house, a naked moor (R. L. Stevenson) . . . . . . . 65
A ship, an isle, a sickle moon (J. E. Flecker) . . . . . . . 76
All that he came to give (L. Johnson) . . . . . . . . . . . 136
All the heavy days are over (W. B. Yeats) . . . . . . . . . 167
All winter through I bow my head (W. de la Mare) . . . . . . 82
Along the graceless grass of town (A. Meynell) . . . . . . . 90
As I went down to Dymchurch wall (J. Davidson) . . . . . . . 45
Assemble, all ye maidens, at the door (B. Bridges) . . . . . 164
Athwart the sky a lowly sigh (J. Davidson) . . . . . . . . . 96
Awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake! (B. Bridges) . . 155