While the Shape who hoofs applause Behind our deafened ear, Hoots--angel-wise--"the Cause!" And affright even fear. TO E.T.: 1917 You sleep too well--too far away, For sorrowing word to soothe or wound; Your very quiet seems to say How longed-for a peace you have found. Else, had not death so lured you on, You would have grieved--'twixt joy and fear-- To know how my small loving son Had wept for you, my dear. APRIL MOON Roses are sweet to smell and see, And lilies on the stem; But rarer, stranger buds there be, And she was like to them. The little moon that April brings, More lovely shade than light, That, setting, silvers lonely hills Upon the verge of night-- Close to the world of my poor heart So stole she, still and clear; Now that she's gone, O dark, and dark, The solitude, the fear. THE FOOL'S SONG Never, no never, listen too long, To the chattering wind in the willow, the night bird's song. 'Tis sad in sooth to lie under the grass, But none too gladsome to wake and grow cold where life's shadows pass. Dumb the old Toll-Woman squats, And, for every green copper battered and worn, doles out Nevers and Nots. I know a Blind Man, too, Who with a sharp ear listens and listens the whole world through. Oh, sit we snug to our feast, With platter and finger and spoon--and good victuals at least. CLEAR EYES Clear eyes do dim at last, And cheeks outlive their rose. Time, heedless of the past, No loving-kindness knows; Chill unto mortal lip Still Lethe flows. Griefs, too, but brief while stay, And sorrow, being o'er, Its salt tears shed away, Woundeth the heart no more. Stealthily lave those waters That solemn shore. Ah, then, sweet face burn on, While yet quick memory lives! And Sorrow, ere thou art gone, Know that my heart forgives-- Ere yet, grown cold in peace, It loves not, nor grieves. DUST TO DUST Heavenly Archer, bend thy bow; Now the flame of life burns low, Youth is gone; I, too, would go. Even Fortune leads to this: Harsh or kind, at last she is Murderess of all ecstasies. Yet the spirit, dark, alone, Bound in sense, still hearkens on For tidings of a bliss foregone. Sleep is well for dreamless head, At no breath astonishèd, From the Gardens of the Dead. I the immortal harps hear ring, By Babylon's river languishing. Heavenly Archer, loose thy string. THE THREE STRANGERS Far are those tranquil hills, Dyed with fair evening's rose; On urgent, secret errand bent, A traveller goes. Approach him strangers three, Barefooted, cowled; their eyes Scan the lone, hastening solitary With dumb surmise. One instant in close speech With them he doth confer: God-sped, he hasteneth on, That anxious traveller ... I was that man--in a dream: And each world's night in vain I patient wait on sleep to unveil Those vivid hills again.