Eye not her loveliness askance, Forge not for her a galling chain; Leave her at peace to bloom again, Vine-clad France. A time there is for change and chance, A time for passing of the cup: And One abides can yet bind up Broken France. A time there is for change and chance: Who next shall drink the trembling cup, Wring out its dregs and suck them up After France? ON THE WING. SONNET. Once in a dream (for once I dreamed of you) We stood together in an open field; Above our heads two swift-winged pigeons wheeled, Sporting at ease and courting full in view. When loftier still a broadening darkness flew, Down-swooping, and a ravenous hawk revealed; Too weak to fight, too fond to fly, they yield; So farewell life and love and pleasures new. Then, as their plumes fell fluttering to the ground, Their snow-white plumage flecked with crimson drops, I wept, and thought I turned towards you to weep: But you were gone; while rustling hedgerow tops Bent in a wind which bore to me a sound Of far-off piteous bleat of lambs and sheep. CONSIDER. Consider The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief:-- We are as they; Like them we fade away, As doth a leaf. Consider The sparrows of the air of small account: Our God doth view Whether they fall or mount,-- He guards us too. Consider The lilies that do neither spin nor toil, Yet are most fair:-- What profits all this care And all this coil? Consider The birds that have no barn nor harvest-weeks; God gives them food:-- Much more our Father seeks To do us good. BEAUTY IS VAIN. While roses are so red, While lilies are so white, Shall a woman exalt her face Because it gives delight? She's not so sweet as a rose, A lily's straighter than she, And if she were as red or white She'd be but one of three. Whether she flush in love's summer Or in its winter grow pale, Whether she flaunt her beauty Or hide it away in a veil, Be she red or white, And stand she erect or bowed, Time will win the race he runs with her And hide her away in a shroud. MAGGIE A LADY. You must not call me Maggie, you must not call me Dear, For I'm Lady of the Manor now stately to see; And if there comes a babe, as there may some happy year, 'T will be little lord or lady at my knee. O, but what ails you, my sailor cousin Phil, That you shake and turn white like a cockcrow ghost? You're as white as I turned once down by the mill, When one told me you and ship and crew were lost: