Webs of strange patterns we weave (each owns) From colour and sound; and like unto these, Soul has its tones and its semitones, Mind has its major and minor keys. Your face (men pass it without a word) It haunts my dreams like an odd, sweet strain; When your name is spoken my soul is stirr’d In its deepest depths with a dull, dim pain. I paced, in the damp grey mist, last night In the streets (an hour) to see you pass: Yet I do not think that I love you--quite; What’s felt so finely ’twere coarse to class. And yet--and yet--I scarce can tell why (As I said, we are riddles and hard to read), If the world went ill with you, and I Could help with a hidden hand your need; But, ere I could reach you where you lay, Must strength and substance and honour spend; Journey long journeys by night and day-- Somehow, I think I should come, my friend! _A Farewell._ (AFTER HEINE.) The sad rain falls from Heaven, A sad bird pipes and sings; I am sitting here at my window And watching the spires of “King’s.” O fairest of all fair places, Sweetest of all sweet towns! With the birds, and the greyness and greenness, And the men in caps and gowns. All they that dwell within thee, To leave are ever loth, For one man gets friends, and another Gets honour, and one gets both. The sad rain falls from Heaven; My heart is great with woe-- I have neither a friend nor honour, Yet I am sorry to go. [Illustration: text decoration] _A Cross-Road Epitaph._ “_Am Kreuzweg wird begraben_ _Wer selber brachte sich um._” When first the world grew dark to me I call’d on God, yet came not he. Whereon, as wearier wax’d my lot, On Love I call’d, but Love came not. When a worse evil did befall, Death, on thee only did I call. [Illustration: text decoration] _Epitaph._ (ON A COMMONPLACE PERSON WHO DIED IN BED.) This is the end of him, here he lies: The dust in his throat, the worm in his eyes, The mould in his mouth, the turf on his breast; This is the end of him, this is best. He will never lie on his couch awake, Wide-eyed, tearless, till dim daybreak. Never again will he smile and smile When his heart is breaking all the while. He will never stretch out his hands in vain Groping and groping--never again. Never ask for bread, get a stone instead, Never pretend that the stone is bread. Never sway and sway ’twixt the false and true, Weighing and noting the long hours through. Never ache and ache with the chok’d-up sighs; This is the end of him, here he lies. [Illustration: text decoration] _Sonnet._