Heedless about the world we play Like children in a garden close: A postern bars the outward way And what’s beyond it no man knows: For careless days, a life at will, A little laughter, and some tears, These are sufficiency to fill The early, vain, untroubled years, Till at the last the wind upheaves His unimagined strength, and we Are scattered far, like autumn leaves, Or proudly sail, like ships at sea. Wind over the Sea _Only_ a grey sea, and a long grey shore, And the grey heavens brooding over them. Twilight of hopes and purposes forgot, Twilight of ceaseless eld, and when was youth? Is it not lonely here, beyond the years? Out of the gathering darkness crashes a wind from the ocean, Rushing with league-long paces over the plain of the waters, Driving the clouds and the breakers before it in sudden commotion. Who are these on the wind, riders and riderless horses? Riders the great ones that have been and are, and those to come shall be: These are the children of might, life’s champions and history’s forces. Might I but grasp at a bridle, and fear not to be trodden under, Swing myself into a saddle, and ride on greatly, exulting On down the long straight road of the wind, a galloping thunder! Only a grey sea, and a long grey shore, And the grey heavens brooding over them, Twilight of hopes and purposes forgot, Twilight of ceaseless eld, for when was youth? Is it not lonely here, beyond the years? Songs on the Downs 1 _This_ is the road the Romans made, This track half lost in the green hills, Or fading in a forest-glade ’Mid violets and daffodils. The years have fallen like dead leaves, Unwept, uncounted, and unstayed (Such as the autumn tempest thieves), Since first this road the Romans made. 2 A miser lives within this house, His patron saint’s the gnawing mouse, And there’s no peace upon his brows. A many ancient trees and thin Do fold the place their shade within, And moan, as for remembered sin. III. Last Poems and “The Burial of Sophocles” “We who have bowed ourselves to Time” _We_ who have bowed ourselves to time Now arm an uneventful rime With panoply of flowers Through the long summer hours. . . . But now our fierce and warlike Muse Doth soft companionship refuse, And we must mount and ride Upon a steed untried. . . . We who have led by gradual ways Our placid life to sterner days And for old quiet things Have set the strife of kings, Who battled have with bloody hands Through evil times in barren lands, To whom the voice of guns Speaks and no longer stuns, Calm, though with death encompassèd, That watch the hours go overhead Knowing too well we must With all men come to dust. . . . Crave of our masters’ clemency Silence a little space that we Upon their ear may force Tales of our trodden course. Anglia Valida in Senectute