Such was the thing in his eye, walking there, The very and visible thing, A close light, displacing the gray of the morning air, And the tokens that the dark was taking wing; And was it not the radiance of a purpose rare That might ripe to its accomplishing? What became of that light? I wonder still its fate! Was it quenched ere its full apogee? Did it struggle frail and frailer to a beam emaciate? Did it thrive till matured in verity? Or did it travel on, to be a new young dreamer’s freight, And thence on infinitely? 1915. THE HEAD ABOVE THE FOG SOMETHING do I see Above the fog that sheets the mead, A figure like to life indeed, Moving along with spectre-speed, Seen by none but me. O the vision keen!— Tripping along to me for love As in the flesh it used to move, Only its hat and plume above The evening fog-fleece seen. In the day-fall wan, When nighted birds break off their song, Mere ghostly head it skims along, Just as it did when warm and strong, Body seeming gone. Such it is I see Above the fog that sheets the mead— Yea, that which once could breathe and plead!— Skimming along with spectre-speed To a last tryst with me. OVERLOOKING THE RIVER STOUR THE swallows flew in the curves of an eight Above the river-gleam In the wet June’s last beam: Like little crossbows animate The swallows flew in the curves of an eight Above the river-gleam. Planing up shavings of crystal spray A moor-hen darted out From the bank thereabout, And through the stream-shine ripped his way; Planing up shavings of crystal spray A moor-hen darted out. Closed were the kingcups; and the mead Dripped in monotonous green, Though the day’s morning sheen Had shown it golden and honeybee’d; Closed were the kingcups; and the mead Dripped in monotonous green. And never I turned my head, alack, While these things met my gaze Through the pane’s drop-drenched glaze, To see the more behind my back . . . O never I turned, but let, alack, These less things hold my gaze! THE MUSICAL BOX LIFELONG to be Seemed the fair colour of the time; That there was standing shadowed near A spirit who sang to the gentle chime Of the self-struck notes, I did not hear, I did not see. Thus did it sing To the mindless lyre that played indoors As she came to listen for me without: “O value what the nonce outpours— This best of life—that shines about Your welcoming!” I had slowed along After the torrid hours were done, Though still the posts and walls and road Flung back their sense of the hot-faced sun, And had walked by Stourside Mill, where broad Stream-lilies throng.