Now the wind is like a soul cast out and praying Vainly, prayers that pierce not ears when hearts resist: Now mine own soul sighs, adrift as wind and straying, ‘Had I wist.’ RECOLLECTIONS. I. YEARS upon years, as a course of clouds that thicken Thronging the ways of the wind that shifts and veers, Pass, and the flames of remembered fires requicken Years upon years. Surely the thought in a man’s heart hopes or fears Now that forgetfulness needs must here have stricken Anguish, and sweetened the sealed-up springs of tears. Ah, but the strength of regrets that strain and sicken, Yearning for love that the veil of death endears, Slackens not wing for the wings of years that quicken— Years upon years. II. Years upon years, and the flame of love’s high altar Trembles and sinks, and the sense of listening ears Heeds not the sound that it heard of love’s blithe psalter Years upon years. Only the sense of a heart that hearkens hears, Louder than dreams that assail and doubts that palter, Sorrow that slept and that wakes ere sundawn peers. Wakes, that the heart may behold, and yet not falter, Faces of children as stars unknown of, spheres Seen but of love, that endures though all things alter, Years upon years. III. Years upon years, as a watch by night that passes, Pass, and the light of their eyes is fire that sears Slowly the hopes of the fruit that life amasses Years upon years. Pale as the glimmer of stars on moorland meres Lighten the shadows reverberate from the glasses Held in their hands as they pass among their peers. Lights that are shadows, as ghosts on graveyard grasses, Moving on paths that the moon of memory cheers, Shew but as mists over cloudy mountain passes Years upon years. TIME AND LIFE. I. TIME, thy name is sorrow, says the stricken Heart of life, laid waste with wasting flame Ere the change of things and thoughts requicken, Time, thy name. Girt about with shadow, blind and lame, Ghosts of things that smite and thoughts that sicken Hunt and hound thee down to death and shame. Eyes of hours whose paces halt or quicken Read in bloodred lines of loss and blame, Writ where cloud and darkness round it thicken, Time, thy name. II. Nay, but rest is born of me for healing, —So might haply time, with voice represt, Speak: is grief the last gift of my dealing? Nay, but rest. All the world is wearied, east and west, Tired with toil to watch the slow sun wheeling, Twelve loud hours of life’s laborious quest. Eyes forspent with vigil, faint and reeling, Find at last my comfort, and are blest, Not with rapturous light of life’s revealing— Nay, but rest. A DIALOGUE. I.