Empty; a walled-in silence, in this twilight of May-- Home for lovers, and friendly withdrawing, and sleep, With none to love there, nor laugh, nor climb from the day To the candles and linen ... Yet in the silence creep, This minute, I know, little ghosts, little virtuous lives, Breathing upon that still, insensible place, Touching the latches, sorting the napkins and knives, And such for the comfort of being, and bowls for the grace, That roses will brim; they are creeping from that room to this, One room, and two, till the four are visited ... they, Little ghosts, little lives, are our thoughts in this twilight of May, Signs that even the curious man would miss, Of travelling lovers to Cotswold, signs of an hour, Very soon, when up from the valley in June will ride Lovers by Lynch to Oakridge up in the wide Bow of the hill, to a garden of lavender flower ... The doors are locked; no foot falls; the hearths are dumb-- But we are there--we are waiting ourselves who come. PASSAGE When you deliberate the page Of Alexander's pilgrimage, Or say--'It is three years, or ten, Since Easter slew Connolly's men,' Or prudently to judgment come Of Antony or Absalom, And think how duly are designed Case and instruction for the mind, Remember then that also we, In a moon's course, are history. * * * * * JOHN FREEMAN O MUSE DIVINE O thou, my Muse, Beside the Kentish River running Through water-meads where dews Tossed flashing at thy feet And tossing flashed again When the timid herd By thy swift passing stirred Up-leapt and ran; Thou that didst fleet Thy shadow over dark October hills By Aston, Weston, Saintbury, Willersey, Winchcombe, and all the combes and hills Of the green lonely land; Thou that in May Once when I saw thee sunning Thyself so lovely there Than the flushed flower more fair Fallen from the wild apple spray, Didst rise and sprinkling sunlight with thy hand Shadow-like disappear in the deep-shadowy hedges Between forsaken Buckle Street and the sparse sedges Of young twin-breasted Honeybourne;-- O thou, my Muse, Scarce longer seen than the brief hues Of winter cloud that flames Over the tarnished silver Thames; So often nearing, As often disappearing, With thy body's shadow brushing My brain at midnight, lightly touching; O yield thee, Muse, to me, No more in dream delights and morn forgettings, But in a ferny hollow I know well And thou know'st well, warm-proof'd 'gainst the wind's frettings. ... Bring thou thyself, and there In that warm ferny hollow where the sun Slants one gold beam and no light else but thine And my eyes' happy shine-- There, O lovely Muse, Shall on thy shining body be begot, Fruit of delights a many mingling in one, Thy child and mine, a lovely shape and thought; My child and thine, O Muse divine! THE WAKERS