And nearer yet that spirit drew Above that heedless one, intent Only on what the simple words Of her small story meant. No voiceless sorrow grieved her mind, No memory her bosom stirred, Nor dreamed she, as she read to two, 'Twas surely three who heard. Yet when, the story done, she smiled From face to face, serene and clear, A love, half dread, sprang up, as she Leaned close and drew them near. THE GHOST Peace in thy hands, Peace in thine eyes, Peace on thy brow; Flower of a moment in the eternal hour, Peace with me now. Not a wave breaks, Not a bird calls, My heart, like a sea, Silent after a storm that hath died, Sleeps within me. All the night's dews, All the world's leaves, All winter's snow Seem with their quiet to have stilled in life's dream All sorrowing now. AN EPITAPH Here lies a most beautiful lady, Light of step and heart was she; I think she was the most beautiful lady That ever was in the West Country. But beauty vanishes; beauty passes; However rare--rare it be; And when I crumble, who will remember This lady of the West Country? "THE HAWTHORN HATH A DEATHLY SMELL" The flowers of the field Have a sweet smell; Meadowsweet, tansy, thyme, And faint-heart pimpernel; But sweeter even than these, The silver of the may Wreathed is with incense for The Judgment Day. An apple, a child, dust, When falls the evening rain, Wild brier's spicèd leaves, Breathe memories again; With further memory fraught, The silver of the may Wreathed is with incense for The Judgment Day. Eyes of all loveliness-- Shadow of strange delight, Even as a flower fades Must thou from sight; But oh, o'er thy grave's mound, Till come the Judgment Day, Wreathed shall with incense he Thy sharp-thorned may. * * * * * MOTLEY: 1918 * * * * * THE LITTLE SALAMANDER TO MARGOT When I go free, I think 'twill be A night of stars and snow, And the wild fires of frost shall light My footsteps as I go; Nobody--nobody will be there With groping touch, or sight, To see me in my bush of hair Dance burning through the night. THE LINNET Upon this leafy bush With thorns and roses in it, Flutters a thing of light, A twittering linnet. And all the throbbing world Of dew and sun and air By this small parcel of life Is made more fair; As if each bramble-spray And mounded gold-wreathed furze, Harebell and little thyme, Were only hers; As if this beauty and grace Did to one bird belong, And, at a flutter of wing, Might vanish in song. THE SUNKEN GARDEN Speak not--whisper not; Here bloweth thyme and bergamot; Softly on the evening hour, Secret herbs their spices shower. Dark-spiked rosemary and myrrh, Lean-stalked, purple lavender; Hides within her bosom, too, All her sorrows, bitter rue.