“I SOMETIMES THINK” (FOR F. E. H.) I SOMETIMES think as here I sit Of things I have done, Which seemed in doing not unfit To face the sun: Yet never a soul has paused a whit On such—not one. There was that eager strenuous press To sow good seed; There was that saving from distress In the nick of need; There were those words in the wilderness: Who cared to heed? Yet can this be full true, or no? For one did care, And, spiriting into my house, to, fro, Like wind on the stair, Cares still, heeds all, and will, even though I may despair. JEZREEL ON ITS SEIZURE BY THE ENGLISH UNDER ALLENBY, SEPTEMBER 1918 DID they catch as it were in a Vision at shut of the day— When their cavalry smote through the ancient Esdraelon Plain, And they crossed where the Tishbite stood forth in his enemy’s way— His gaunt mournful Shade as he bade the King haste off amain? On war-men at this end of time—even on Englishmen’s eyes— Who slay with their arms of new might in that long-ago place, Flashed he who drove furiously? . . . Ah, did the phantom arise Of that queen, of that proud Tyrian woman who painted her face? Faintly marked they the words “Throw her down!” rise from Night eerily, Spectre-spots of the blood of her body on some rotten wall? And the thin note of pity that came: “A King’s daughter is she,” As they passed where she trodden was once by the chargers’ footfall? Could such be the hauntings of men of to-day, at the cease Of pursuit, at the dusk-hour, ere slumber their senses could seal? Enghosted seers, kings—one on horseback who asked “Is it peace?” . . . Yea, strange things and spectral may men have beheld in Jezreel! _September_ 24, 1918. A JOG-TROT PAIR WHO were the twain that trod this track So many times together Hither and back, In spells of certain and uncertain weather? Commonplace in conduct they Who wandered to and fro here Day by day: Two that few dwellers troubled themselves to know here. The very gravel-path was prim That daily they would follow: Borders trim: Never a wayward sprout, or hump, or hollow. Trite usages in tamest style Had tended to their plighting. “It’s just worth while, Perhaps,” they had said. “And saves much sad good-nighting.” And petty seemed the happenings That ministered to their joyance: Simple things, Onerous to satiate souls, increased their buoyance. Who could those common people be, Of days the plainest, barest? They were we; Yes; happier than the cleverest, smartest, rarest. “THE CURTAINS NOW ARE DRAWN” (SONG) I