“Sun and Shadow and Winds of Spring” _Sun_ and shadow and winds of spring, Love and laughter and hope and fame, Cloud and storm-light over the hills, Tears and passion and sordid shame: All, all are but as quenchèd fire And vanish’d smoke to him that lies Amid the silence of the trees Under the silence of the skies. “Let us tell Quiet Stories of Kind Eyes” _Let_ us tell quiet stories of kind eyes And placid brows where peace and learning sate: Of misty gardens under evening skies Where four would walk of old, with steps sedate. Let’s have no word of all the sweat and blood, Of all the noise and strife and dust and smoke (We who have seen Death surging like a flood, Wave upon wave, that leaped and raced and broke). Or let’s sit silently, we three together, Around a wide hearth-fire that’s glowing red, Giving no thought to all the stormy weather That flies above the roof-tree overhead. And he, the fourth, that lies all silently In some far-distant and untended grave, Under the shadow of a shattered tree, Shall leave the company of the hapless brave, And draw nigh unto us for memory’s sake, Because a look, a word, a deed, a friend, Are bound with cords that never a man may break, Unto his heart for ever, until the end. “Save that Poetic Fire” _Save_ that poetic fire Burns in the hidden heart, Save that the full-voiced choir Sings in a place apart, Man that’s of woman born, With all his imaginings, Were less than the dew of morn, Less than the least of things. The Burial of Sophocles The First Verses _Gather_ great store of roses, crimson-red From ancient gardens under summer skies: New opened buds, and some that soon must shed Their leaves to earth, that all expectant lies; Some from the paths of poets’ wandering, Some from the places where young lovers meet, Some from the seats of dreamers pondering, And all most richly red, and honey-sweet. For in the splendour of the afternoon, When sunshine lingers on the glittering town And glorifies the temples wondrous-hewn All set about it like a deathless crown, We will go mingle with the solemn throng, With neither eyes that weep, nor hearts that bleed, That to his grave with slow, majestic song Bears down the latest of the godlike seed. Many a singer lies on distant isle Beneath the canopy of changing sky: Around them waves innumerable smile, And o’er their head the restless seabirds cry: But we will lay him far from sound of seas, Far from the jutting crags’ unhopeful gloom, Where there blows never wind save summer breeze, And where the growing rose may clasp his tomb.