The mask put on a bleak smile then, And said, “O vassal-wight, There once complained a goosequill pen To the scribe of the Infinite Of the words it had to write Because they were past its ken.” IN A WHISPERING GALLERY THAT whisper takes the voice Of a Spirit’s compassionings Close, but invisible, And throws me under a spell At the kindling vision it brings; And for a moment I rejoice, And believe in transcendent things That would mould from this muddy earth A spot for the splendid birth Of everlasting lives, Whereto no night arrives; And this gaunt gray gallery A tabernacle of worth On this drab-aired afternoon, When you can barely see Across its hazed lacune If opposite aught there be Of fleshed humanity Wherewith I may commune; Or if the voice so near Be a soul’s voice floating here. THE SOMETHING THAT SAVED HIM IT was when Whirls of thick waters laved me Again and again, That something arose and saved me; Yea, it was then. In that day Unseeing the azure went I On my way, And to white winter bent I, Knowing no May. Reft of renown, Under the night clouds beating Up and down, In my needfulness greeting Cit and clown. Long there had been Much of a murky colour In the scene, Dull prospects meeting duller; Nought between. Last, there loomed A closing-in blind alley, Though there boomed A feeble summons to rally Where it gloomed. The clock rang; The hour brought a hand to deliver; I upsprang, And looked back at den, ditch and river, And sang. THE ENEMY’S PORTRAIT HE saw the portrait of his enemy, offered At auction in a street he journeyed nigh, That enemy, now late dead, who in his life-time Had injured deeply him the passer-by. “To get that picture, pleased be God, I’ll try, And utterly destroy it; and no more Shall be inflicted on man’s mortal eye A countenance so sinister and sore!” And so he bought the painting. Driving homeward, “The frame will come in useful,” he declared, “The rest is fuel.” On his arrival, weary, Asked what he bore with him, and how he fared, He said he had bid for a picture, though he cared For the frame only: on the morrow he Would burn the canvas, which could well be spared, Seeing that it portrayed his enemy. Next day some other duty found him busy; The foe was laid his face against the wall; But on the next he set himself to loosen The straining-strips. And then a casual call Prevented his proceeding therewithal; And thus the picture waited, day by day, Its owner’s pleasure, like a wretched thrall, Until a month and more had slipped away.