“SIR, will you let me give you a ride? _Nox Venit_, and the heath is wide.” —My phaeton-lantern shone on one Young, fair, even fresh, But burdened with flesh: A leathern satchel at his side, His breathings short, his coat undone. ’Twas as if his corpulent figure slopped With the shake of his walking when he stopped, And, though the night’s pinch grew acute, He wore but a thin Wind-thridded suit, Yet well-shaped shoes for walking in, Artistic beaver, cane gold-topped. “Alas, my friend,” he said with a smile, “I am daily bound to foot ten mile— Wet, dry, or dark—before I rest. Six months to live My doctors give Me as my prospect here, at best, Unless I vamp my sturdiest!” His voice was that of a man refined, A man, one well could feel, of mind, Quite winning in its musical ease; But in mould maligned By some disease; And I asked again. But he shook his head; Then, as if more were due, he said:— “A student was I—of Schopenhauer, Kant, Hegel,—and the fountained bower Of the Muses, too, knew my regard: But ah—I fear me The grave gapes near me! . . . Would I could this gross sheath discard, And rise an ethereal shape, unmarred!” How I remember him!—his short breath, His aspect, marked for early death, As he dropped into the night for ever; One caught in his prime Of high endeavour; From all philosophies soon to sever Through an unconscienced trick of Time! “WHO’S IN THE NEXT ROOM?” “WHO’S in the next room?—who? I seemed to see Somebody in the dawning passing through, Unknown to me.” “Nay: you saw nought. He passed invisibly.” “Who’s in the next room?—who? I seem to hear Somebody muttering firm in a language new That chills the ear.” “No: you catch not his tongue who has entered there.” “Who’s in the next room?—who? I seem to feel His breath like a clammy draught, as if it drew From the Polar Wheel.” “No: none who breathes at all does the door conceal.” “Who’s in the next room?—who? A figure wan With a message to one in there of something due? Shall I know him anon?” “Yea he; and he brought such; and you’ll know him anon.” AT A COUNTRY FAIR At a bygone Western country fair I saw a giant led by a dwarf With a red string like a long thin scarf; How much he was the stronger there The giant seemed unaware. And then I saw that the giant was blind, And the dwarf a shrewd-eyed little thing; The giant, mild, timid, obeyed the string As if he had no independent mind, Or will of any kind. Wherever the dwarf decided to go At his heels the other trotted meekly, (Perhaps—I know not—reproaching weakly) Like one Fate bade that it must be so, Whether he wished or no.