“—Will the day come,” Said the new one, awestruck, faint, “When I shall lodge shades dim and dumb— And with such spectral guests become acquaint?” “—That will it, boy; Such shades will people thee, Each in his misery, irk, or joy, And print on thee their presences as on me.” ON STINSFORD HILL AT MIDNIGHT I GLIMPSED a woman’s muslined form Sing-songing airily Against the moon; and still she sang, And took no heed of me. Another trice, and I beheld What first I had not scanned, That now and then she tapped and shook A timbrel in her hand. So late the hour, so white her drape, So strange the look it lent To that blank hill, I could not guess What phantastry it meant. Then burst I forth: “Why such from you? Are you so happy now?” Her voice swam on; nor did she show Thought of me anyhow. I called again: “Come nearer; much That kind of note I need!” The song kept softening, loudening on, In placid calm unheed. “What home is yours now?” then I said; “You seem to have no care.” But the wild wavering tune went forth As if I had not been there. “This world is dark, and where you are,” I said, “I cannot be!” But still the happy one sang on, And had no heed of me. THE FALLOW DEER AT THE LONELY HOUSE ONE without looks in to-night Through the curtain-chink From the sheet of glistening white; One without looks in to-night As we sit and think By the fender-brink. We do not discern those eyes Watching in the snow; Lit by lamps of rosy dyes We do not discern those eyes Wondering, aglow, Fourfooted, tiptoe. THE SELFSAME SONG A BIRD bills the selfsame song, With never a fault in its flow, That we listened to here those long Long years ago. A pleasing marvel is how A strain of such rapturous rote Should have gone on thus till now Unchanged in a note! —But it’s not the selfsame bird.— No: perished to dust is he . . . As also are those who heard That song with me. THE WANDERER THERE is nobody on the road But I, And no beseeming abode I can try For shelter, so abroad I must lie. The stars feel not far up, And to be The lights by which I sup Glimmeringly, Set out in a hollow cup Over me. They wag as though they were Panting for joy Where they shine, above all care, And annoy, And demons of despair— Life’s alloy. Sometimes outside the fence Feet swing past, Clock-like, and then go hence, Till at last There is a silence, dense, Deep, and vast. A wanderer, witch-drawn To and fro, To-morrow, at the dawn, On I go, And where I rest anon Do not know!