So, like a strange bright bird we sometimes find To mingle with the barn-door brood awhile, Then vanish from their homely domicile— Into man’s poesy, we wot not whence, Flew thy strange mind, Lodged there a radiant guest, and sped for ever thence. 1916. QUID HIC AGIS? I WHEN I weekly knew An ancient pew, And murmured there The forms of prayer And thanks and praise In the ancient ways, And heard read out During August drought That chapter from Kings Harvest-time brings; —How the prophet, broken By griefs unspoken, Went heavily away To fast and to pray, And, while waiting to die, The Lord passed by, And a whirlwind and fire Drew nigher and nigher, And a small voice anon Bade him up and be gone,— I did not apprehend As I sat to the end And watched for her smile Across the sunned aisle, That this tale of a seer Which came once a year Might, when sands were heaping, Be like a sweat creeping, Or in any degree Bear on her or on me! II When later, by chance Of circumstance, It befel me to read On a hot afternoon At the lectern there The selfsame words As the lesson decreed, To the gathered few From the hamlets near— Folk of flocks and herds Sitting half aswoon, Who listened thereto As women and men Not overmuch Concerned at such— So, like them then, I did not see What drought might be With me, with her, As the Kalendar Moved on, and Time Devoured our prime. III But now, at last, When our glory has passed, And there is no smile From her in the aisle, But where it once shone A marble, men say, With her name thereon Is discerned to-day; And spiritless In the wilderness I shrink from sight And desire the night, (Though, as in old wise, I might still arise, Go forth, and stand And prophesy in the land), I feel the shake Of wind and earthquake, And consuming fire Nigher and nigher, And the voice catch clear, “What doest thou here?” _The Spectator_ 1916. During the War. ON A MIDSUMMER EVE I IDLY cut a parsley stalk, And blew therein towards the moon; I had not thought what ghosts would walk With shivering footsteps to my tune. I went, and knelt, and scooped my hand As if to drink, into the brook, And a faint figure seemed to stand Above me, with the bygone look. I lipped rough rhymes of chance, not choice, I thought not what my words might be; There came into my ear a voice That turned a tenderer verse for me. TIMING HER (_Written to an old folk-tune_) LALAGE’S coming: Where is she now, O? Turning to bow, O, And smile, is she, Just at parting, Parting, parting, As she is starting To come to me?