I watch you, gazing at me from the wall, And wonder how you'd match your dreams with mine, If, mastering time's illusion, I could call You back to share this quiet candle-shine. For you were young, three hundred years ago; And by your looks I guess that you were wise ... Come, whisper soft, and Death will never know You've slipped away from those calm, painted eyes. Strange is your voice ... Poor ninny, dead so long, And all your pride forgotten like your name. _'One April morn I heard a blackbird's song. And joy was in my heart like leaves aflame.'_ And so you died before your songs took wing; While Andrew Marvell followed in your wake. _'Love thrilled me into music. I could sing But for a moment,--but for beauty's sake.'_ Who passes? There's a star-lit breeze that stirs The glimmer of white lilies in the gloom. Who speaks? Death has his silent messengers. And there was more than silence in this room While you were gazing at me from the wall And wondering how you'd match your dreams with mine, If, mastering time's illusion, you could call Me back to share your vanished candle-shine. THRUSHES Tossed on the glittering air they soar and skim, Whose voices make the emptiness of light A windy palace. Quavering from the brim Of dawn, and bold with song at edge of night, They clutch their leafy pinnacles and sing Scornful of man, and from his toils aloof Whose heart's a haunted woodland whispering; Whose thoughts return on tempest-baffled wing; Who hears the cry of God in everything, And storms the gate of nothingness for proof. EVERYONE SANG Everyone suddenly burst out singing; And I was filled with such delight As prisoned birds must find in freedom, Winging wildly across the white Orchards and dark-green fields; on--on--and out of sight. Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted; And beauty came like the setting sun: My heart was shaken with tears; and horror Drifted away ... O, but Everyone Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done. * * * * * EDWARD SHANKS A NIGHT-PIECE Come out and walk. The last few drops of light Drain silently out of the cloudy blue; The trees are full of the dark-stooping night, The fields are wet with dew. All's quiet in the wood but, far away, Down the hillside and out across the plain, Moves, with long trail of white that marks its way, The softly panting train. Come through the clearing. Hardly now we see The flowers, save dark or light against the grass, Or glimmering silver on a scented tree That trembles as we pass. Hark now! So far, so far ... that distant song ... Move not the rustling grasses with your feet. The dusk is full of sounds, that all along The muttering boughs repeat. So far, so faint, we lift our heads in doubt. Wind, or the blood that beats within our ears, Has feigned a dubious and delusive note, Such as a dreamer hears.