From tides the lofty coastlands screen Come smitings like the slam of doors, Or hammerings on hollow floors, As the swell cleaves through caves unseen. Say I: “Though broad this wild terrene, Her city home is matched of none!” From the hoarse skies the wind replies: “Thou shouldst have said her sea-bord one.” The all-prevailing clouds exclude The one quick timorous transient star; The waves outside where breakers are Huzza like a mad multitude. “Where the sun ups it, mist-imbued,” I cry, “there reigns the star for me!” The wind outshrieks from points and peaks: “Here, westward, where it downs, mean ye!” Yonder the headland, vulturine, Snores like old Skrymer in his sleep, And every chasm and every steep Blackens as wakes each pharos-shine. “I roam, but one is safely mine,” I say. “God grant she stay my own!” Low laughs the wind as if it grinned: “Thy Love is one thou’st not yet known.” _Rewritten from an old copy_. DURING WIND AND RAIN THEY sing their dearest songs— He, she, all of them—yea, Treble and tenor and bass, And one to play; With the candles mooning each face . . . Ah, no; the years O! How the sick leaves reel down in throngs! They clear the creeping moss— Elders and juniors—aye, Making the pathways neat And the garden gay; And they build a shady seat . . . Ah, no; the years, the years; See, the white storm-birds wing across! They are blithely breakfasting all— Men and maidens—yea, Under the summer tree, With a glimpse of the bay, While pet fowl come to the knee . . . Ah, no; the years O! And the rotten rose is ript from the wall. They change to a high new house, He, she, all of them—aye, Clocks and carpets and chairs On the lawn all day, And brightest things that are theirs . . . Ah, no; the years, the years; Down their carved names the rain-drop ploughs. HE PREFERS HER EARTHLY THIS after-sunset is a sight for seeing, Cliff-heads of craggy cloud surrounding it. —And dwell you in that glory-show? You may; for there are strange strange things in being, Stranger than I know. Yet if that chasm of splendour claim your presence Which glows between the ash cloud and the dun, How changed must be your mortal mould! Changed to a firmament-riding earthless essence From what you were of old: All too unlike the fond and fragile creature Then known to me . . . Well, shall I say it plain? I would not have you thus and there, But still would grieve on, missing you, still feature You as the one you were. THE DOLLS