AND you, Helen, what should I give you? So many things I would give you Had I an infinite great store Offered me and I stood before To choose. I would give you youth, All kinds of loveliness and truth, A clear eye as good as mine, Lands, waters, flowers, wine, As many children as your heart Might wish for, a far better art Than mine can be, all you have lost Upon the travelling waters tossed, Or given to me. If I could choose Freely in that great treasure-house Anything from any shelf, I would give you back yourself, And power to discriminate What you want and want it not too late, Many fair days free from care And heart to enjoy both foul and fair, And myself, too, if I could find Where it lay hidden and it proved kind. WHEN FIRST WHEN first I came here I had hope, Hope for I knew not what. Fast beat My heart at sight of the tall slope Or grass and yews, as if my feet Only by scaling its steps of chalk Would see something no other hill Ever disclosed. And now I walk Down it the last time. Never will My heart beat so again at sight Of any hill although as fair And loftier. For infinite The change, late unperceived, this year, The twelfth, suddenly, shows me plain. Hope now,--not health, nor cheerfulness, Since they can come and go again, As often one brief hour witnesses,-- Just hope has gone for ever. Perhaps I may love other hills yet more Than this: the future and the maps Hide something I was waiting for. One thing I know, that love with chance And use and time and necessity Will grow, and louder the heart's dance At parting than at meeting be. HEAD AND BOTTLE THE downs will lose the sun, white alyssum Lose the bees' hum; But head and bottle tilted back in the cart Will never part Till I am cold as midnight and all my hours Are beeless flowers. He neither sees, nor hears, nor smells, nor thinks, But only drinks, Quiet in the yard where tree trunks do not lie More quietly. AFTER YOU SPEAK AFTER you speak And what you meant Is plain, My eyes Meet yours that mean-- With your cheeks and hair-- Something more wise, More dark, And far different. Even so the lark Loves dust And nestles in it The minute Before he must Soar in lone flight So far, Like a black star He seems-- A mote Of singing dust Afloat Above, That dreams And sheds no light. I know your lust Is love. SOWING IT was a perfect day For sowing; just As sweet and dry was the ground As tobacco-dust. I tasted deep the hour Between the far Owl's chuckling first soft cry And the first star. A long stretched hour it was; Nothing undone Remained; the early seeds All safely sown. And now, hark at the rain, Windless and light, Half a kiss, half a tear, Saying good-night. WHEN WE TWO WALKED WHEN we two walked in Lent We imagined that happiness Was something different And this was something less. But happy were we to hide Our happiness, not as they were Who acted in their pride Juno and Jupiter: