Death lies in wait for you, you wild thing in the wood, Shy-footed beauty dear, half-seen, half-understood, Glimpsed in the beech-wood dim and in the dropping fir, Shy like a fawn and sweet and beauty's minister. Glimpsed as in flying clouds by night the little moon, A wonder, a delight, a paleness passing soon. Only a moment held, only an hour seen, Only an instant known in all that life has been, One instant in the sand to drink that gush of grace, The beauty of your way, the marvel of your face. Death lies in wait for you, but few short hours he gives; I perish even as you by whom all spirit lives. Come to me, spirit, come, and fill my hour of breath With hours of life in life that pay no toll to death. * * * * * RALPH HODGSON THE GIPSY GIRL 'Come, try your skill, kind gentlemen, A penny for three tries!' Some threw and lost, some threw and won A ten-a-penny prize. She was a tawny gipsy girl, A girl of twenty years, I liked her for the lumps of gold That jingled from her ears; I liked the flaring yellow scarf Bound loose about her throat, I liked her showy purple gown And flashy velvet coat. A man came up, too loose of tongue, And said no good to her; She did not blush as Saxons do, Or turn upon the cur; She fawned and whined 'Sweet gentleman, A penny for three tries!' --But oh, the den of wild things in The darkness of her eyes! THE BELLS OF HEAVEN 'Twould ring the bells of Heaven The wildest peal for years, If Parson lost his senses And people came to theirs, And he and they together Knelt down with angry prayers For tamed and shabby tigers And dancing dogs and bears, And wretched, blind pit ponies, And little hunted hares. BABYLON If you could bring her glories back! You gentle sirs who sift the dust And burrow in the mould and must Of Babylon for bric-a-brac; Who catalogue and pigeon-hole The faded splendours of her soul And put her greatness under glass-- If you could bring her past to pass! If you could bring her dead to life! The soldier lad; the market wife; Madam buying fowls from her; Tip, the butcher's bandy cur; Workmen carting bricks and clay; Babel passing to and fro On the business of a day Gone three thousand years ago-- That you cannot; then be done, Put the goblet down again, Let the broken arch remain, Leave the dead men's dust alone-- Is it nothing how she lies, This old mother of you all, You great cities proud and tall Towering to a hundred skies Round a world she never knew, Is it nothing, this, to you? Must the ghoulish work go on Till her very floors are gone? While there's still a brick to save Drive these people from her grave. The Jewish seer when he cried Woe to Babel's lust and pride Saw the foxes at her gates; Once again the wild thing waits. Then leave her in her last decay A house of owls, a foxes' den; The desert that till yesterday Hid her from the eyes of men In its proper time and way Will take her to itself again.