To fetch the saving medicament Is another bent, On whom the rain comes down. One slowly drives his herd to the stall Ere ill befall, On whom the rain comes down. This bears his missives of life and death With quickening breath, On whom the rain comes down. One watches for signals of wreck or war From the hill afar, On whom the rain comes down. No care if he gain a shelter or none, Unhired moves one, On whom the rain comes down. And another knows nought of its chilling fall Upon him at all, On whom the rain comes down. _October_ 1904. MEDITATIONS ON A HOLIDAY (A NEW THEME TO AN OLD FOLK-JINGLE) ’TIS May morning, All-adorning, No cloud warning Of rain to-day. Where shall I go to, Go to, go to?— Can I say No to Lyonnesse-way? Well—what reason Now at this season Is there for treason To other shrines? Tristram is not there, Isolt forgot there, New eras blot there Sought-for signs! Stratford-on-Avon— Poesy-paven— I’ll find a haven There, somehow!— Nay—I’m but caught of Dreams long thought of, The Swan knows nought of His Avon now! What shall it be, then, I go to see, then, Under the plea, then, Of votary? I’ll go to Lakeland, Lakeland, Lakeland, Certainly Lakeland Let it be. But—why to that place, That place, that place, Such a hard come-at place Need I fare? When its bard cheers no more, Loves no more, fears no more, Sees no more, hears no more Anything there! Ah, there is Scotland, Burns’s Scotland, And Waverley’s. To what land Better can I hie?— Yet—if no whit now Feel those of it now— Care not a bit now For it—why I? I’ll seek a town street, Aye, a brick-brown street, Quite a tumbledown street, Drawing no eyes. For a Mary dwelt there, And a Percy felt there Heart of him melt there, A Claire likewise. Why incline to _that_ city, Such a city, _that_ city, Now a mud-bespat city!— Care the lovers who Now live and walk there, Sit there and talk there, Buy there, or hawk there, Or wed, or woo? Laughters in a volley Greet so fond a folly As nursing melancholy In this and that spot, Which, with most endeavour, Those can visit never, But for ever and ever Will now know not! If, on lawns Elysian, With a broadened vision And a faint derision Conscious be they, How they might reprove me That these fancies move me, Think they ill behoove me, Smile, and say: “What!—our hoar old houses, Where the past dead-drowses, Nor a child nor spouse is Of our name at all? Such abodes to care for, Inquire about and bear for, And suffer wear and tear for— How weak of you and small!” _May_ 1921. AN EXPERIENCE