And here are two specimens of my French verse. I like to print them, for they tell me how I have held together, and they are not worse than my English verse, and is my English verse worse than the verse of our minor poets? NUIT DE SEPTEMBRE La nuit est pleine de silence, Et dans une étrange lueur, Et dans une douce indolence La lune dort comme une fleur. Parmi rochers, dans le sable Sous les grands pins d'un calme amer Surgit mon amour périssable, Faim de tes yeux, soif de ta chair. Je suis ton amant, et la blonde Gorge tremble sous mon baiser, Et le feu de l'amour inonde Nos deux cœurs sans les apaiser. Rien ne peut durer, mais ta bouche Est telle qu'un fruit fait de sang; Tout passe, mais ta main me touche Et je me donne en frémissant, Tes yeux verts me regardent: j'aime Le clair de lune de tes yeux, Et je ne vois dans le ciel même Que ton corps rare et radieux. POUR UN TABLEAU DE LORD LEIGHTON De quoi rêvent-elles? de fleurs, D'ombres, d'étoiles ou de pleurs? De quoi rêvent ces douces femmes De leurs amours ou de leurs âmes? Parcilles aux lis abattus Elles dorment les rêves tus Dans la grande fenêtre ovale Ou s'ouvre la nuit estivale. But I realised before I was thirty that minor poetry is not sufficient occupation for a life-time--I realised that fact suddenly--I remember the very place at the corner of Wellington Street in the Strand; and these poems were the last efforts of my muse. THE SWEETNESS OF THE PAST As sailors watch from their prison For the faint grey line of the coasts, I look to the past re-arisen, And joys come over in hosts Like the white sea birds from their roosts. I love not the indelicate present, The future's unknown to our quest, To-day is the life of the peasant, But the past is a haven of rest-- The things of the past are the best. The rose of the past is better Than the rose we ravish to-day, 'Tis holier, purer, and fitter To place on the shrine where we pray For the secret thoughts we obey. In the past nothing dies, nothing changes, In the past all is lovely and still; No grief nor fate that estranges, Nor hope that no life can fulfil, But ethereal shelter from ill. The coarser delights of the hour Tempt, and debauch, and deprave, And we joy in a flitting flower, Knowing that nothing can save Our flesh from the fate of the grave. But sooner or later returning In grief to the well-loved nest, Our souls filled with infinite yearning, We cry, there is rest, there is rest In the past, its joys are the best. NOSTALGIA