A day of sunshine beryl-bright And windless; yea, think as I might, I could not say, Even to within years’ measure, when One would be at my side who then Was far away. When hard utilitarian times Had stilled the sweet Saint-Peter’s chimes I learnt to see That bale may spring where blisses are, And one desired might be afar Though near to me. THE FIGURE IN THE SCENE IT pleased her to step in front and sit Where the cragged slope was green, While I stood back that I might pencil it With her amid the scene; Till it gloomed and rained; But I kept on, despite the drifting wet That fell and stained My draught, leaving for curious quizzings yet The blots engrained. And thus I drew her there alone, Seated amid the gauze Of moisture, hooded, only her outline shown, With rainfall marked across. —Soon passed our stay; Yet her rainy form is the Genius still of the spot, Immutable, yea, Though the place now knows her no more, and has known her not Ever since that day. _From an old note_. “WHY DID I SKETCH” WHY did I sketch an upland green, And put the figure in Of one on the spot with me?— For now that one has ceased to be seen The picture waxes akin To a wordless irony. If you go drawing on down or cliff Let no soft curves intrude Of a woman’s silhouette, But show the escarpments stark and stiff As in utter solitude; So shall you half forget. Let me sooner pass from sight of the sky Than again on a thoughtless day Limn, laugh, and sing, and rhyme With a woman sitting near, whom I Paint in for love, and who may Be called hence in my time! _From an old note_. CONJECTURE IF there were in my kalendar No Emma, Florence, Mary, What would be my existence now— A hermit’s?—wanderer’s weary?— How should I live, and how Near would be death, or far? Could it have been that other eyes Might have uplit my highway? That fond, sad, retrospective sight Would catch from this dim byway Prized figures different quite From those that now arise? With how strange aspect would there creep The dawn, the night, the daytime, If memory were not what it is In song-time, toil, or pray-time.— O were it else than this, I’d pass to pulseless sleep! THE BLOW THAT no man schemed it is my hope— Yea, that it fell by will and scope Of That Which some enthrone, And for whose meaning myriads grope. For I would not that of my kind There should, of his unbiassed mind, Have been one known Who such a stroke could have designed;