Beauty walked over the hills and made them bright. She in the long fresh grass scattered her rains Sparkling and glittering like a host of stars, But not like stars cold, severe, terrible. Hers was the laughter of the wind that leaped Arm-full of shadows, flinging them far and wide. Hers the bright light within the quick green Of every new leaf on the oldest tree. It was her swimming made the river run Shining as the sun; Her voice, escaped from winter's chill and dark, Singing in the incessant lark.... All this was hers--yet all this had not been Except 'twas seen. It was my eyes, Beauty, that made thee bright; My ears that heard, the blood leaping in my veins, The vehemence of transfiguring thought-- Not lights and shadows, birds, grasses and rains-- That made thy wonders wonderful. For it has been, Beauty, that I have seen thee, Tedious as a painted cloth at a bad play, Empty of meaning and so of all delight. Now thou hast blessed me with a great pure bliss, Shaking thy rainy light all over the earth, And I have paid thee with my thankfulness. 'IT WAS THE LOVELY MOON' It was the lovely moon--she lifted Slowly her white brow among Bronze cloud-waves that ebbed and drifted Faintly, faintlier afar. Calm she looked, yet pale with wonder, Sweet in unwonted thoughtfulness, Watching the earth that dwindled under Faintly, faintlier afar. It was the lovely moon that lovelike Hovered over the wandering, tired Earth, her bosom grey and dovelike, Hovering beautiful as a dove.... The lovely moon:--her soft light falling Lightly on roof and poplar and pine-- Tree to tree whispering and calling, Wonderful in the silvery shine Of the round, lovely, thoughtful moon. STONE TREES Last night a sword-light in the sky Flashed a swift terror on the dark. In that sharp light the fields did lie Naked and stone-like; each tree stood Like a tranced woman, bound and stark. Far off the wood With darkness ridged the riven dark. And cows astonied stared with fear, And sheep crept to the knees of cows, And conies to their burrows slid, And rooks were still in rigid boughs, And all things else were still or hid. From all the wood Came but the owl's hoot, ghostly, clear. In that cold trance the earth was held It seemed an age, or time was nought. Sure never from that stone-like field Sprang golden corn, nor from those chill Grey granite trees was music wrought. In all the wood Even the tall poplar hung stone still. It seemed an age, or time was none ... Slowly the earth heaved out of sleep And shivered, and the trees of stone Bent and sighed in the gusty wind, And rain swept as birds flocking sweep. Far off the wood Rolled the slow thunders on the wind. From all the wood came no brave bird, No song broke through the close-fall'n night, Nor any sound from cowering herd: Only a dog's long lonely howl When from the window poured pale light. And from the wood The hoot came ghostly of the owl. THE PIGEONS