It’s fifteen years, they tell me, since anyone fished that brook; And there’s nothing in it but minnows that nibble the bait off your hook. But before the sun has risen and after the moon has set I know that it’s full of ghostly trout for Lilly’s ghost to get. I guess I’ll go to the tavern and get a bottle of rye And leave it down by the hollow oak, where Lilly’s ghost went by. I meant to go up on the hillside and try to find his grave And put some flowers on it--but this will be better for Dave. ALARM CLOCKS When Dawn strides out to wake a dewy farm Across green fields and yellow hills of hay The little twittering birds laugh in his way And poise triumphant on his shining arm. He bears a sword of flame but not to harm The wakened life that feels his quickening sway And barnyard voices shrilling “It is day!” Take by his grace a new and alien charm. But in the city, like a wounded thing That limps to cover from the angry chase, He steals down streets where sickly arc-lights sing, And wanly mock his young and shameful face; And tiny gongs with cruel fervour ring In many a high and dreary sleeping place. WAVERLEY 1814–1914 When on a novel’s newly printed page We find a maudlin eulogy of sin, And read of ways that harlots wander in, And of sick souls that writhe in helpless rage; Or when Romance, bespectacled and sage, Taps on her desk and bids the class begin To con the problems that have always been Perplexed mankind’s unhappy heritage; Then in what robes of honour habited The laureled wizard of the North appears! Who raised Prince Charlie’s cohorts from the dead, Made Rose’s mirth and Flora’s noble tears, And formed that shining legion at whose head Rides Waverley, triumphant o’er the years! EARLY POEMS IN A BOOK-SHOP All day I serve among the volumes telling Old tales of love and war and high romance; Good company, God wot, is in them dwelling, Brave knights who dared to scorn untoward chance. King Arthur--Sidney--Copperfield--the daring And friendly souls of Meredith’s bright page-- The Pilgrim on his darksome journey faring, And Shakespeare’s heroes, great in love and rage. Fair ladies, too--here Beatricè smiling Through hell leads Dante to the happy stars; And Heloise, the cruel guards beguiling, With Abelard makes mock of convent bars. Yet when night comes I leave these folks with pleasure To open Love’s great summer-scented tome Within whose pages--precious beyond measure-- My own White Flower Lady hath her home. SLENDER YOUR HANDS Slender your hands and soft and white As petals of moon-kissed roses; Yet the grasp of your fingers slight My passionate heart encloses. Innocent eyes like delicate spheres That are born when day is dying; Yet the wisdom of all the years Is in their lovelight lying. SLEEP SONG