Nay, but a dream I had
Of a world all mad.
Not simple happy mad like me,
Who am mad like an empty scene
Of water and willow tree,
Where the wind hath been;
But that foul Satan-mad,
Who rots in his own head,
And counts the dead,
Not honest one—and two—
But for the ghosts they were,
Brave, faithful, true,
When head in air,
In Earth’s clear green and blue
Heaven they did share
With Beauty who bade them there....
There, now! Death goes—
Mayhap I’ve wearied him.
Ay, and the light doth dim,
And asleep ’s the rose,
And tired Innocence
In dreams is hence....
Come, Love, my lad,
Nodding that drowsy head,
’Tis time thy prayers were said!
TO E. T.: 1917
Else, had not death so lured you on,
You would have grieved—’twixt joy and fear—
To know how my small loving son
Had wept for you, my dear.
ALEXANDER
Voices of sea-maids singing
Wandered across the deep:
The sailors labouring on their oars
Rowed, as in sleep.
All the high pomp of Asia,
Charmed by that siren lay,
Out of their weary and dreaming minds,
Faded away.
Like a bold boy sate their Captain,
His glamour withered and gone,
In the souls of his brooding mariners,
While the song pined on.