Dumb waits the dim, broad land, Like one who hears, yet cannot understand, Tidings of grief to come. The woods and waters, with the winds, are dumb. But now a breeze has found Sorrowful voice, and sobs along the ground: “Oh, the lost light, the last, the best lost light! No more on field and wave!” _What now remains, what now remains but night? Night hopeless, since the moon is in her grave!_ III Hark, how the wind outswells, Tempting the wood’s dark heart till he rebels, And, shaking his black hair, Lifts up a cry of passion and despair! The groaning branches chafe Till scarce the small, hushed singing-birds are safe, Tossed rocking in the nest, Like gentle memories in a stormy breast. A shudder, as good angels passed in flight, Thrills over field and wave. _What now remains, what now remains but night? Night lawless, while the moon is in her grave!_ IV There falls a mighty hush: And forth from far recesses fern-scents rush, Faint as a waft from years Long past; they touch in heaven the springs of tears. In great drops, slow and warm, Breaks all at once the spirit of the storm. _What now remains, what now remains but night? Night grieving, while the moon is in her grave!_ V Behold! the rain is over: on the wave A new, a flashing light! Lo, she arises calm, The pale, the patient moon, and pours like balm Through the wet wood’s wrecked aisle Her own unutterably tender smile! There is no calm like that when storm is done; There is no pleasure keen as pain’s release; There is no joy that lies so deep as peace, No peace so deep as that by struggle won. _Naught now remains, naught now remains but night-- Night peaceful, with the moon on field and wave!_ A MEMORY OF ELLEN TERRY’S BEATRICE A wind of spring that whirls the feignéd snows Of blossom-petals in the face, and flees: Elusive, made of mirthful mockeries, Yet tender with the prescience of the rose; A strain desired, that through the memory goes, Too subtle-slender for the voice to seize; A flame dissembled, only lit to tease, Whose touch were half a kiss, if one but knows. She shows by Leonato’s dove-like daughter A falcon, by a prince to be possessed, Gay-graced with bells that ever chiming are; In azure of the bright Sicilian water, A billow that has rapt into its breast The swayed reflection of a dancing star! EMELIE _O chaste goddesse of the wodes grene, I am (thou wost) yet of thy compagnie, A mayde, and love hunting and venerie, And for to walken in the wodes wilde._ THE KNIGHTES TALE.