And I do not care, though the large hands of revenge Shall get my throat at last, shall get it soon, If the joy that they are searching to avenge Have risen red on my night as a harvest moon, Which even death can only put out for me; And death, I know, is better than not-to-be. A PASSING BELL MOURNFULLY to and fro, to and fro the trees are waving; _What did you say, my dear?_ The rain-bruised leaves are suddenly shaken, as a child Asleep still shakes in the clutch of a sob-- _Yes, my love, I hear._ One lonely bell, one only, the storm-tossed afternoon is braving, _Why not let it ring?_ The roses lean down when they hear it, the tender, mild Flowers of the bleeding-heart fall to the throb-- _It is such a little thing!_ A wet bird walks on the lawn, call to the boy to come and look, _Yes, it is over now._ Call to him out of the silence, call him to see The starling shaking its head as it walks in the grass-- _Ah, who knows how?_ He cannot see it, I can never show it him, how it shook-- _Don't disturb him, darling._ --Its head as it walked: I can never call him to me, Never, he _is_ not, whatever shall come to pass. _No, look at the wet starling._ IN TROUBLE AND SHAME I LOOK at the swaling sunset And wish I could go also Through the red doors beyond the black-purple bar. I wish that I could go Through the red doors where I could put off My shame like shoes in the porch, My pain like garments, And leave my flesh discarded lying Like luggage of some departed traveller Gone one knows not where. Then I would turn round, And seeing my cast-off body lying like lumber, I would laugh with joy. ELEGY SINCE I lost you, my darling, the sky has come near, And I am of it, the small sharp stars are quite near, The white moon going among them like a white bird among snow-berries, And the sound of her gently rustling in heaven like a bird I hear. And I am willing to come to you now, my dear, As a pigeon lets itself off from a cathedral dome To be lost in the haze of the sky, I would like to come, And be lost out of sight with you, and be gone like foam. For I am tired, my dear, and if I could lift my feet, My tenacious feet from off the dome of the earth To fall like a breath within the breathing wind Where you are lost, what rest, my love, what rest! GREY EVENING WHEN you went, how was it you carried with you My missal book of fine, flamboyant hours? My book of turrets and of red-thorn bowers, And skies of gold, and ladies in bright tissue? Now underneath a blue-grey twilight, heaped Beyond the withering snow of the shorn fields Stands rubble of stunted houses; all is reaped And garnered that the golden daylight yields. Dim lamps like yellow poppies glimmer among The shadowy stubble of the under-dusk, As farther off the scythe of night is swung, And little stars come rolling from their husk.