Love, from your loss shall a god be born to fill The emptiness, where once you were, With friendly knowledge and more than a lover’s will To ease despair? Shall I feed longing with what it hungers after, Seeing in earth and sea and air A lover’s smiles, hearing a lover’s laughter, Feeling love everywhere? The night drags on. Darkness and silence grow, And with them my desire has grown, My bitter need. Alas, I know, I know that here I lie alone. ON HAMPSTEAD HEATH BENEATH the sunlight and blue of all-but Autumn The grass sleeps goldenly; woodland and distant hill Shine through the gauzy air in a dust of golden pollen, And even the glittering leaves are almost still. Scattered on the grass, like a ragman’s bundles carelessly dropped, Men sleep outstretched or, sprawling, bask in the sun; Here glows a woman’s bright dress and here a child is sitting, And I lie down and am one of the sleepers, one Like the rest of this tumbled crowd. Do they all, I wonder, Feel anguish grow with the calm day’s slow decline, Longing, as I, for a shattering wind, a passion Of bodily pain to be the soul’s anodyne? SYMPATHY THE irony of being two . . . ! Grey eyes, wide open suddenly, Regard me and enquire; I see a face Grave and unquiet in tenderness. Heart-rending question of women—never answered: “Tell me, tell me, what are you thinking of?” Oh, the pain and foolishness of love! What can I do but make my old grimace, Ending it with a kiss, as I always do? MALE AND FEMALE CREATED HE THEM