THE curtains now are drawn, And the spindrift strikes the glass, Blown up the jagged pass By the surly salt sou’-west, And the sneering glare is gone Behind the yonder crest, While she sings to me: “O the dream that thou art my Love, be it thine, And the dream that I am thy Love, be it mine, And death may come, but loving is divine.” II I stand here in the rain, With its smite upon her stone, And the grasses that have grown Over women, children, men, And their texts that “Life is vain”; But I hear the notes as when Once she sang to me: “O the dream that thou art my Love, be it thine, And the dream that I am thy Love, be it mine, And death may come, but loving is divine.” 1913. “ACCORDING TO THE MIGHTY WORKING” I WHEN moiling seems at cease In the vague void of night-time, And heaven’s wide roomage stormless Between the dusk and light-time, And fear at last is formless, We call the allurement Peace. II Peace, this hid riot, Change, This revel of quick-cued mumming, This never truly being, This evermore becoming, This spinner’s wheel onfleeing Outside perception’s range. 1917. “I WAS NOT HE” (SONG) I WAS not he—the man Who used to pilgrim to your gate, At whose smart step you grew elate, And rosed, as maidens can, For a brief span. It was not I who sang Beside the keys you touched so true With note-bent eyes, as if with you It counted not whence sprang The voice that rang . . . Yet though my destiny It was to miss your early sweet, You still, when turned to you my feet, Had sweet enough to be A prize for me! THE WEST-OF-WESSEX GIRL A VERY West-of-Wessex girl, As blithe as blithe could be, Was once well-known to me, And she would laud her native town, And hope and hope that we Might sometime study up and down Its charms in company. But never I squired my Wessex girl In jaunts to Hoe or street When hearts were high in beat, Nor saw her in the marbled ways Where market-people meet That in her bounding early days Were friendly with her feet. Yet now my West-of-Wessex girl, When midnight hammers slow From Andrew’s, blow by blow, As phantom draws me by the hand To the place—Plymouth Hoe— Where side by side in life, as planned, We never were to go! Begun in Plymouth, _March_ 1913. WELCOME HOME TO my native place Bent upon returning, Bosom all day burning To be where my race Well were known, ’twas much with me There to dwell in amity.