Then, amid the shadow of that livid sad east, Where the light was least, and a gate stood wide, Something flashed the fire of the sun that was facing it, Like a brief blaze on that side. Looking hard and harder I knew what it meant— The sudden shine sent from the livid east scene; It meant the west mirrored by the coffin of my friend there, Turning to the road from his green, To take his last journey forth—he who in his prime Trudged so many a time from that gate athwart the land! Thus a farewell to me he signalled on his grave-way, As with a wave of his hand. WINTERBORNE-CAME PATH. THE HOUSE OF SILENCE “THAT is a quiet place— That house in the trees with the shady lawn.” “—If, child, you knew what there goes on You would not call it a quiet place. Why, a phantom abides there, the last of its race, And a brain spins there till dawn.” “But I see nobody there,— Nobody moves about the green, Or wanders the heavy trees between.” “—Ah, that’s because you do not bear The visioning powers of souls who dare To pierce the material screen. “Morning, noon, and night, Mid those funereal shades that seem The uncanny scenery of a dream, Figures dance to a mind with sight, And music and laughter like floods of light Make all the precincts gleam. “It is a poet’s bower, Through which there pass, in fleet arrays, Long teams of all the years and days, Of joys and sorrows, of earth and heaven, That meet mankind in its ages seven, An aion in an hour.” GREAT THINGS SWEET cyder is a great thing, A great thing to me, Spinning down to Weymouth town By Ridgway thirstily, And maid and mistress summoning Who tend the hostelry: O cyder is a great thing, A great thing to me! The dance it is a great thing, A great thing to me, With candles lit and partners fit For night-long revelry; And going home when day-dawning Peeps pale upon the lea: O dancing is a great thing, A great thing to me! Love is, yea, a great thing, A great thing to me, When, having drawn across the lawn In darkness silently, A figure flits like one a-wing Out from the nearest tree: O love is, yes, a great thing, A great thing to me! Will these be always great things, Great things to me? . . . Let it befall that One will call, “Soul, I have need of thee:” What then? Joy-jaunts, impassioned flings, Love, and its ecstasy, Will always have been great things, Great things to me! THE CHIMES THAT morning when I trod the town The twitching chimes of long renown Played out to me The sweet Sicilian sailors’ tune, And I knew not if late or soon My day would be: