SWAN, Swan, Yesterday you were The whitest of things in this dark winter. To-day the snow has made of your plumes An unwashed pocket handkercher, An unwashed pocket handkercher . . . “Lancashire, to Lancashire!”— Tune of the antique trains long ago: Each summer holiday a milestone Backwards, backwards:— Tenby, Barmouth, and year by year All the different hues of the sea, Blue, green and blue. But on this river of muddy jade There swims a yellow swan, And along the bank the snow lies dazzlingly white. A MELODY BY SCARLATTI HOW clear under the trees, How softly the music flows, Rippling from one still pool to another Into the lake of silence. A SUNSET OVER against the triumph and the close— Amber and green and rose— Of this short day, The pale ghost of the moon grows living-bright Once more, as the last light Ebbs slowly away. Darkening the fringes of these western glories The black phantasmagories Of cloud advance With noiseless footing—vague and villainous shapes, Wrapped in their ragged fustian capes, Of some grotesque romance. But overhead where, like a pool between Dark rocks, the sky is green And clear and deep, Floats windlessly a cloud, with curving breast Flushed by the fiery west, In god-like sleep . . . And in my mind opens a sudden door That lets me see once more A little room With night beyond the window, chill and damp, And one green-lighted lamp Tempering the gloom, While here within, close to me, touching me (Even the memory Of my desire Shakes me like fear), you sit with scattered hair; And all your body bare Before the fire Is lapped about with rosy flame. . . . But still, Here on the lonely hill, I walk alone; Silvery green is the moon’s lamp overhead, The cloud sleeps warm and red, And you are gone. LIFE AND ART YOU have sweet flowers for your pleasure; You laugh with the bountiful earth In its richness of summer treasure: Where now are your flowers and your mirth? Petals and cadenced laughter, Each in a dying fall, Droop out of life; and after Is nothing; they were all.