Blow, blow, winding shells; And the watery fish, Deaf to the hidden bells, In the water splash; No streaming gold, no eyes, Watching along the waves, But far-blown shells, faint bells, From the darkling caves. MYSELF There is a garden, grey With mists of autumntide; Under the giant boughs, Stretched green on every side, Along the lonely paths, A little child like me, With face, with hands, like mine, Plays ever silently; On, on, quite silently, When I am there alone, Turns not his head; lifts not his eyes; Heeds not as he plays on. After the birds are flown From singing in the trees, When all is grey, all silent, Voices, and winds, and bees; And I am there alone: Forlornly, silently, Plays in the evening garden Myself with me. AUTUMN There is a wind where the rose was; Cold rain where sweet grass was; And clouds like sheep Stream o'er the steep Grey skies where the lark was. Nought gold where your hair was; Nought warm where your hand was; But phantom, forlorn, Beneath the thorn, Your ghost where your face was. Sad winds where your voice was; Tears, tears where my heart was; And ever with me, Child, ever with me, Silence where hope was. WINTER Green Mistletoe! Oh, I remember now A dell of snow, Frost on the bough; None there but I: Snow, snow, and a wintry sky. None there but I, And footprints one by one, Zigzaggedly, Where I had run; Where shrill and powdery A robin sat in the tree. And he whistled sweet; And I in the crusted snow With snow-clubbed feet Jigged to and fro, Till, from the day, The rose-light ebbed away. And the robin flew Into the air, the air, The white mist through; And small and rare The night-frost fell In the calm and misty dell. And the dusk gathered low, And the silver moon and stars On the frozen snow Drew taper bars, Kindled winking fires In the hooded briers. And the sprawling Bear Growled deep in the sky; And Orion's hair Streamed sparkling by: But the North sighed low, "Snow, snow, more snow!" * * * * * ENVOI * * * * * TO MY MOTHER Thine is my all, how little when 'tis told Beside thy gold! Thine the first peace, and mine the livelong strife; Thine the clear dawn, and mine the night of life; Thine the unstained belief, Darkened in grief. Scarce even a flower but thine its beauty and name, Dimmed, yet the same; Never in twilight comes the moon to me, Stealing thro' those far woods, but tells of thee, Falls, dear, on my wild heart, And takes thy part. Thou art the child, and I--how steeped in age! A blotted page From that clear, little book life's taken away: How could I read it, dear, so dark the day? Be it all memory 'Twixt thee and me! * * * * * THE LISTENERS: 1914 * * * * * THE THREE CHERRY TREES