Where is she now, O, Now, and now, O, Shadowing a bough, O, Of hedge or tree As she is rushing, Rushing, rushing, Gossamers brushing To come to me? Lalage’s coming; Where is she now, O; Climbing the brow, O, Of hills I see? Yes, she is nearing, Nearing, nearing, Weather unfearing To come to me. Near is she now, O, Now, and now, O; Milk the rich cow, O, Forward the tea; Shake the down bed for her, Linen sheets spread for her, Drape round the head for her Coming to me. Lalage’s coming, She’s nearer now, O, End anyhow, O, To-day’s husbandry! Would a gilt chair were mine, Slippers of vair were mine, Brushes for hair were mine Of ivory! What will she think, O, She who’s so comely, Viewing how homely A sort are we! Nothing resplendent, No prompt attendant, Not one dependent Pertaining to me! Lalage’s coming; Where is she now, O? Fain I’d avow, O, Full honestly Nought here’s enough for her, All is too rough for her, Even my love for her Poor in degree. She’s nearer now, O, Still nearer now, O, She ’tis, I vow, O, Passing the lea. Rush down to meet her there, Call out and greet her there, Never a sweeter there Crossed to me! Lalage’s come; aye, Come is she now, O! . . . Does Heaven allow, O, A meeting to be? Yes, she is here now, Here now, here now, Nothing to fear now, Here’s Lalage! BEFORE KNOWLEDGE WHEN I walked roseless tracks and wide, Ere dawned your date for meeting me, O why did you not cry Halloo Across the stretch between, and say: “We move, while years as yet divide, On closing lines which—though it be You know me not nor I know you— Will intersect and join some day!” Then well I had borne Each scraping thorn; But the winters froze, And grew no rose; No bridge bestrode The gap at all; No shape you showed, And I heard no call! THE BLINDED BIRD SO zestfully canst thou sing? And all this indignity, With God’s consent, on thee! Blinded ere yet a-wing By the red-hot needle thou, I stand and wonder how So zestfully thou canst sing! Resenting not such wrong, Thy grievous pain forgot, Eternal dark thy lot, Groping thy whole life long; After that stab of fire; Enjailed in pitiless wire; Resenting not such wrong! Who hath charity? This bird. Who suffereth long and is kind, Is not provoked, though blind And alive ensepulchred? Who hopeth, endureth all things? Who thinketh no evil, but sings? Who is divine? This bird. “THE WIND BLEW WORDS” THE wind blew words along the skies, And these it blew to me Through the wide dusk: “Lift up your eyes, Behold this troubled tree, Complaining as it sways and plies; It is a limb of thee.