Prove they their power to prance Life’s miles together From upper slope to nether Who trip an ell? —Years hence, or now apace, May tongues be calling News of my further falling Sinward pell-mell: Then this great good will grace Our lives’ division, She’s saved from more misprision Though I plumb hell. 189– THE COLOUR (_The following lines are partly made up_, _partly remembered from a Wessex folk-rhyme_) “WHAT shall I bring you? Please will white do Best for your wearing The long day through?” “—White is for weddings, Weddings, weddings, White is for weddings, And that won’t do.” “What shall I bring you? Please will red do Best for your wearing The long day through?” “ —Red is for soldiers, Soldiers, soldiers, Red is for soldiers, And that won’t do.” “What shall I bring you? Please will blue do Best for your wearing The long day through?” “—Blue is for sailors, Sailors, sailors, Blue is for sailors, And that won’t do. “What shall I bring you? Please will green do Best for your wearing The long day through?” “—Green is for mayings, Mayings, mayings, Green is for mayings, And that won’t do.” “What shall I bring you Then? Will black do Best for your wearing The long day through?” “—Black is for mourning, Mourning, mourning, Black is for mourning, And black will do.” MURMURS IN THE GLOOM (NOCTURNE) I WAYFARED at the nadir of the sun Where populations meet, though seen of none; And millions seemed to sigh around As though their haunts were nigh around, And unknown throngs to cry around Of things late done. “O Seers, who well might high ensample show” (Came throbbing past in plainsong small and slow), “Leaders who lead us aimlessly, Teachers who train us shamelessly, Why let ye smoulder flamelessly The truths ye trow? “Ye scribes, that urge the old medicament, Whose fusty vials have long dried impotent, Why prop ye meretricious things, Denounce the sane as vicious things, And call outworn factitious things Expedient? “O Dynasties that sway and shake us so, Why rank your magnanimities so low That grace can smooth no waters yet, But breathing threats and slaughters yet Ye grieve Earth’s sons and daughters yet As long ago? “Live there no heedful ones of searching sight, Whose accents might be oracles that smite To hinder those who frowardly Conduct us, and untowardly; To lead the nations vawardly From gloom to light?” _September_ 22, 1899. EPITAPH