Warm yellowy-green In the blue serene, How they skip and sway On this autumn day! They cannot know What has happened below,— That their boughs down there Are already quite bare, That their own will be When a week has passed,— For they jig as in glee To this very last. But no; there lies At times in their tune A note that cries What at first I fear I did not hear: “O we remember At each wind’s hollo— Though life holds yet— We go hence soon, For ’tis November; —But that you follow You may forget!” “IT NEVER LOOKS LIKE SUMMER” “IT never looks like summer here On Beeny by the sea.” But though she saw its look as drear, Summer it seemed to me. It never looks like summer now Whatever weather’s there; But ah, it cannot anyhow, On Beeny or elsewhere! BOSCASTLE, _March_ 8, 1913. EVERYTHING COMES “THE house is bleak and cold Built so new for me! All the winds upon the wold Search it through for me; No screening trees abound, And the curious eyes around Keep on view for me.” “My Love, I am planting trees As a screen for you Both from winds, and eyes that tease And peer in for you. Only wait till they have grown, No such bower will be known As I mean for you.” “Then I will bear it, Love, And will wait,” she said. —So, with years, there grew a grove. “Skill how great!” she said. “As you wished, Dear?”—“Yes, I see! But—I’m dying; and for me ’Tis too late,” she said. THE MAN WITH A PAST THERE was merry-making When the first dart fell As a heralding,— Till grinned the fully bared thing, And froze like a spell— Like a spell. Innocent was she, Innocent was I, Too simple we! Before us we did not see, Nearing, aught wry— Aught wry! I can tell it not now, It was long ago; And such things cow; But that is why and how Two lives were so— Were so. Yes, the years matured, And the blows were three That time ensured On her, which she dumbly endured; And one on me— One on me. HE FEARS HIS GOOD FORTUNE THERE was a glorious time At an epoch of my prime; Mornings beryl-bespread, And evenings golden-red; Nothing gray: And in my heart I said, “However this chanced to be, It is too full for me, Too rare, too rapturous, rash, Its spell must close with a crash Some day!” The radiance went on Anon and yet anon, And sweetness fell around Like manna on the ground. “I’ve no claim,” Said I, “to be thus crowned: I am not worthy this:— Must it not go amiss?— Well . . . let the end foreseen Come duly!—I am serene.” —And it came. HE WONDERS ABOUT HIMSELF