And now he told her of his life, and how He too had been nigh friendless, until now. And soon he talked to her about his work; But, when he spoke of it, as with a jerk, The light dropped from his eyes. He seemed to slip Once more in the machine’s relentless grip; And hear again the clank and whirr and click; And see the dancing colours and the glare; Until his dizzy brain again turned sick: And seeing him look round with vacant air, Fierce pity cut her to the very quick; And as her eyes with keen distress were filled, She touched his hand; and soon her kind touch stilled The agony: and so, to bring him ease, She told more of that Isle in Northern seas, Where she was born, and of the folks at home: And how, all night, you heard the wash of foam... Sometimes, on stormy nights, against the pane The sousing spray would rattle just like rain; And oft the high-tides scoured the threshold clean... And, as she talked, he saw the sea-light glint In her dark eyes: and then the sleek machine Lost hold on him at last; and ceased to print: And in his eyes there sprang a kindred light, As, hand in hand, they wandered through the night. THE LODESTAR From hag to hag, o’er miles of quaking moss, Benighted, in an unknown countryside, Among gaunt hills, the stars my only guide; Bewildered by peat-waters, black and deep, Wherein the mocking stars swam; spent for sleep; O’er-wearied by long trudging; at a loss Which way to turn for shelter from the night; I struggled on, until, my head grown light From utter weariness, I almost sank To rest among the tussocks, soft and dank, Drowsing, half-dazed, and murmuring: it were best To stray no further: but, to lie at rest, Beneath the cold, white stars, for evermore: When, suddenly, I came across A runnel oozing from the moss; And knew that, if I followed where it led, ’Twould bring me to a valley, in the end, Where there’d be houses, and, perhaps, a bed. And so, the little runnel was my friend; And as I walked beside its path, at first It kept a friendly silence; then it burst Into a friendly singing, as it rambled, Among big boulders, down a craggy steep, ’Mid bracken, nigh breast-deep, Through which I scrambled, Half-blind and numb for sleep, Until it seemed that I could strive no more: When, startled by a startled sheep, Looking down, I saw a track-- A stony trackway, dimly white, Disappearing in the night, Across a waste of heather, burnt and black. And so, I took it, mumbling o’er and o’er, In witlessness of weariness, And featherheaded foolishness: A track must lead, at sometime, to a door.