Who passes? There's a star-lit breeze that stirs The glimmer of white lilies in the gloom. Who speaks? Death has his silent messengers: And there was more than silence in this room While you were gazing at me from the wall And wondering how you'd match your dreams with mine, If, mastering time's illusion, you could call Me back to share your vanished candle-shine. BUTTERFLIES Frail travellers, deftly flickering over the flowers; O living flowers against the heedless blue Of summer days, what sends them dancing through This fiery-blossom'd revel of the hours? Theirs are the musing silences between The enraptured crying of shrill birds that make Heaven in the wood while summer dawns awake; And theirs the faintest winds that hush the green. And they are as my soul that wings its way Out of the starlit dimness into morn: And they are as my tremulous being--born To know but this, the phantom glare of day. WRAITHS They know not the green leaves; In whose earth-haunting dream Dimly the forest heaves, And voiceless goes the stream. Strangely they seek a place In love's night-memoried hall; Peering from face to face, Until some heart shall call And keep them, for a breath, Half-mortal ... (_Hark to the rain!_) ... They are dead ... (_O hear how death Gropes on the shutter'd pane!_) PHANTOM The clock has stopped; and the wind's dropped: A candle burns with moon-gold flame. Blank silence whispers at my ears, '_Though I've been dead these coffin'd years, 'You'll never choke my shame._' '_Dip your quill in clotted ink:_ '_Write; I'll quicken you to think_ '_In my old fiery alphabet._' The candle-flame upon its wick Staggers; the time-piece starts to tick; And down the dark the wind blows wet. * * * * * * * Good angels, help me to forget. THE DARK HOUSE Dusk in the rain-soaked garden, And dark the house within. A door creaked: someone was early To watch the dawn begin. But he stole away like a thief In the chilly, star-bright air: Though the house was shuttered for slumber, He had left one wakeful there. Nothing moved in the garden. Never a bird would sing, Nor shake and scatter the dew from the boughs With shy and startled wing. But when that lover had passed the gate A quavering thrush began... 'Come back; come back!' he shrilled to the heart Of the passion-plighted man. IDYLL