And I descried The dusky house that stood apart, And her, white-muslined, waiting there In the porch with high-expectant heart, While still the thin mechanic air Went on inside. At whiles would flit Swart bats, whose wings, be-webbed and tanned, Whirred like the wheels of ancient clocks: She laughed a hailing as she scanned Me in the gloom, the tuneful box Intoning it. Lifelong to be I thought it. That there watched hard by A spirit who sang to the indoor tune, “O make the most of what is nigh!” I did not hear in my dull soul-swoon— I did not see. ON STURMINSTER FOOT-BRIDGE (ONOMATOPOEIC) RETICULATIONS creep upon the slack stream’s face When the wind skims irritably past, The current clucks smartly into each hollow place That years of flood have scrabbled in the pier’s sodden base; The floating-lily leaves rot fast. On a roof stand the swallows ranged in wistful waiting rows, Till they arrow off and drop like stones Among the eyot-withies at whose foot the river flows; And beneath the roof is she who in the dark world shows As a lattice-gleam when midnight moans. ROYAL SPONSORS “THE king and the queen will stand to the child; ’Twill be handed down in song; And it’s no more than their deserving, With my lord so faithful at Court so long, And so staunch and strong. “O never before was known such a thing! ’Twill be a grand time for all; And the beef will be a whole-roast bullock, And the servants will have a feast in the hall, And the ladies a ball. “While from Jordan’s stream by a traveller, In a flagon of silver wrought, And by caravan, stage-coach, wain, and waggon A precious trickle has been brought, Clear as when caught.” The morning came. To the park of the peer The royal couple bore; And the font was filled with the Jordan water, And the household awaited their guests before The carpeted door. But when they went to the silk-lined cot The child was found to have died. “What’s now to be done? We can disappoint not The king and queen!” the family cried With eyes spread wide. “Even now they approach the chestnut-drive! The service must be read.” “Well, since we can’t christen the child alive, By God we shall have to christen him dead!” The marquis said. Thus, breath-forsaken, a corpse was taken To the private chapel—yea— And the king knew not, nor the queen, God wot, That they answered for one returned to clay At the font that day. OLD FURNITURE I KNOW not how it may be with others Who sit amid relics of householdry That date from the days of their mothers’ mothers, But well I know how it is with me Continually.