“_You see that man_?”—I might have looked, and said, “O yes: I see him. One that boat has brought Which dropped down Channel round Saint Alban’s Head. So commonplace a youth calls not my thought.” “_You see that man_?”—“Why yes; I told you; yes: Of an idling town-sort; thin; hair brown in hue; And as the evening light scants less and less He looks up at a star, as many do.” “_You see that man_?”—“Nay, leave me!” then I plead, “I have fifteen miles to vamp across the lea, And it grows dark, and I am weary-kneed: I have said the third time; yes, that man I see! “Good. That man goes to Rome—to death, despair; And no one notes him now but you and I: A hundred years, and the world will follow him there, And bend with reverence where his ashes lie.” _September_ 1920. _Note_.—In September 1820 Keats, on his way to Rome, landed one day on the Dorset coast, and composed the sonnet, “Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art.” The spot of his landing is judged to have been Lulworth Cove. A BYGONE OCCASION (SONG) THAT night, that night, That song, that song! Will such again be evened quite Through lifetimes long? No mirth was shown To outer seers, But mood to match has not been known In modern years. O eyes that smiled, O lips that lured; That such would last was one beguiled To think ensured! That night, that night, That song, that song; O drink to its recalled delight, Though tears may throng! TWO SERENADES I _On Christmas Eve_ LATE on Christmas Eve, in the street alone, Outside a house, on the pavement-stone, I sang to her, as we’d sung together On former eves ere I felt her tether.— Above the door of green by me Was she, her casement seen by me; But she would not heed What I melodied In my soul’s sore need— She would not heed. Cassiopeia overhead, And the Seven of the Wain, heard what I said As I bent me there, and voiced, and fingered Upon the strings. . . . Long, long I lingered: Only the curtains hid from her One whom caprice had bid from her; But she did not come, And my heart grew numb And dull my strum; She did not come. II _A Year Later_ I SKIMMED the strings; I sang quite low; I hoped she would not come or know That the house next door was the one now dittied, Not hers, as when I had played unpitied; —Next door, where dwelt a heart fresh stirred, My new Love, of good will to me, Unlike my old Love chill to me, Who had not cared for my notes when heard: Yet that old Love came To the other’s name As hers were the claim; Yea, the old Love came