It is too soon, too soon, though time be brief, Quite to forswear thy quest, O Light, whose farewell dyes the falling leaf, Fades thro' the fading west. Thou'rt flown too soon! I stretch my hands out still, O, Light of Life, to Thee, Who leav'st an Olivet in each far blue hill, A sorrow on every sea. It is too soon, here while the loud world roars For wealth and power and fame, Too soon quite to forget those other shores Afar, from whence I came; Too soon even to forget the first dear dream Dreamed far away, when tears could freely flow; And life seemed infinite, as that sky's great gleam Deepened, to which I go; Too soon even to forget the fluttering fire And those old books beside the friendly hearth, When time seemed endless as my own desire, And angels walked our earth; Too soon quite to forget amid the throng What once the silent hills, the sounding beach Taught me--where singing was the prize of song, And heaven within my reach. It is too soon amid the cynic sneers, The sophist smiles, the greedy mouths and hands, Quite to forget the light of those dead years And my lost mountain-lands; Too soon to lose that everlasting hope (For so it seemed) of youth in love's pure reign, Though while I linger on this darkening slope Nought seems quite worth the pain. It is too soon for me to break that trust, O, Light of Light, flown far past sun and moon, Burn back thro' this dark panoply of dust; Or let me follow--soon. THE LIGHTS OF HOME Pilot, how far from home?-- Not far, not far to-night, A flight of spray, a sea-bird's flight, A flight of tossing foam, And then the lights of home!-- And, yet again, how far? And seems the way so brief? Those lights beyond the roaring reef Were lights of moon and star, Far, far, none knows how far! Pilot, how far from home?-- The great stars pass away Before Him as a flight of spray, Moons as a flight of foam! I see the lights of home. NEW POEMS 'TWEEN THE LIGHTS "The Nine men's morrice is filled up with mud ... From our debate, from our dissension." --SHAKESPEARE I Fairies, come back! We have not seen Your dusky foot-prints on the green This many a year. No frolic now Shakes the dew from the hawthorn-bough. Never a man and never a maid Spies you in the blue-bell shade; Yet, where the nine men's morrice stood, Our spades are clearing out the mud. _Chorus._--_Come, little irised heralds, fling Earth's Eden-gates apart, and sing The bright eyes and the cordial hand Of brotherhood thro' all our land._ II