Young man with the keen blue eyes, Clear and bold! Why, as thou dost fare, With so searching air, Scannest thou each face thou dost behold, Each small flower, faint-coloured like the skies, Growing by the way? Why gazest thou O’er the round hill’s brow? “Ah, in every bearded face, Looking deep, My heart’s friend seek I! In each maiden shy My heart’s dearest, dreamed upon in sleep; And in each fair flower a hope I trace; And the hill may hide the flashing sea That doth call to me!” II Old man with the pale blue eyes, Mild and clear! Why, as thou dost fare, With that pondering air Into passing faces dost thou peer? Why dost pause, where dim like autumn skies Starry asters grow? Why gazest thou O’er the round hill’s brow? “Ah, from each gray-bearded face Would I know What that heart hath found; And in youths that bound See a youth who vanished long ago! In each flower a memory can I trace; O’er the hill the green, still place may be That doth wait for me!” A ROSE Too-perfect Rose, thy heavy breath has power To wake a dim, an unexplained regret: Art body to the soul of some deep hour That all my seasons have not yielded yet? But if it be so--Hour, too-perfect Hour, Ah, blow not full, though all the yearning days Should tremble bud-like, since the wind must shower Thine unreturning grace along the ways! THE INN OF THE STAR When the Old Year plods down Toward the end of the hill, Where the white little town Lies asleep, wonder-still, Then he mends his dull pace, For a ray, streaming far, Strikes a gleam on his face From the Inn of the Star. Then the staff is set by, And the shoon from his feet, And the burden let lie, And he sitteth at meat; Old jests round the board, Old songs round the blaze, While the faint bells accord Like the souls of old days. In the sweet bed of peace He shall sleep for a night, And faith, like a fleece, Lap him kindly and light; Then the wind, crooning wild, Mystic music shall seem, And the brow of the Child Be a light through his dream. And we, too, follow down The long slope of the hill: See, the white little town, Where it shines, wonder-still! Be our hopes quenched or bright, Be our griefs what they are, We shall sojourn a night At the Inn of the Star. POSIES --_Is this ... the posy of a ring?_--HAMLET. I FRIENDSHIP I were not worth you, could I long for you; But should you come, you would find me ready. The lamp is lighted, the flame is steady: Over the strait I toss this song for you! II ROSE-RENT