“As a panther strikes to slay, so I wrenched my shuddering prey. I lit above the panic throng my torches’ crimson flare; For they made my coming bright and I gave them light for light-- I filled the night with flaming wings and Terror’s streaming hair. “They were stately walls and high--as I felled them so they lie-- Lie like bodies torn and broken, lie like faces seamed with scars; Here where Beauty dwelt and Pride, ere my torches flamed and died, The empty arches break the night to frame the tranquil stars. “Though of all my brothers scorned, I, betrayer, go unmourned, It is I who tower shoulder-high above the level years; You who come to build anew, joy will live again with you, But mightiest I who walked with Death and taught the sting of tears!” THE POPPY FIELD Beyond the tangled poppies lies a lake; And ever sings to him who muses here The murmur of the hidden streams and clear That flow thereto by arching fern and brake. But never, slumber-heavy, does he wake To heed the music calling in his ear, Nor ever knows the water, deep and near, Ashine with silver lilies for his sake. And never he will heed, that love of thine; The poppies of thy beauty drug his sleep; Nor heedest thou that I must hear the streams, And follow all thy crystal thought and fine, And love at last the lilies folded deep Within thy soul’s unknown beyond his dreams. YOU All elfish woodland things that Fancy broods-- The comrades of my solitary moods-- Would crouch when heavy footsteps passed them by, And peer from shelter--freakish folk and shy. At you they pricked their furry ears in doubt; Then, “This one sees--he knows!” they cried. “Come out!” They thought to hush their piping till you passed. “Come out!” they cried. “We dare be brave at last!” So forth the gay procession sways and weaves; And some are crowned with roses, some with leaves, And all are mine, but some I never knew. I could not wake them, but they come for you. JUST A DOG[4] So many times in those dark days, Instinct with sudden hope he crept, (When sad, infrequent hands would raise The startled notes where sound had slept) Seeking the voice he used to hear, Close-crouching at his master’s knees, Hoping to find again the dear Familiar hand upon the keys. In very truth there was a soul Behind his brown and faithful eyes. There live some mortals, on the whole Less loving, tender, loyal, wise; And though we give it to decay, His poor old body, worn and scarred; Yet He who judges soul and clay Will give one dog his just reward.