Dead, dead, and dumbly chill. He seemed to lie Carved from the earth, in beauty without stain And suddenly Day turned to night, and I beheld again A still Centurion with eyes ablaze: And Calvary re-echoed with his cry-- His cry of stark amaze. II B. E. F. MISSING They told me nothing more: I bow my head And squander life, between the quick and dead Irresolute. Yet I again could be Mistress of life, Queen of my destiny, If I but knew--But now Remembrance plays My being back through spring and summer days We passed together; and I see him still Swinging to meet me down the tardy hill. That day the birds were new-inspired; a breeze Bestirred, as it in wonderment, the trees; The very clouds paused in their breathless race, And shadows played upon his open face; And I remember how his laughing eyes Shone deep as pools in sea-blue ecstasies. The meadow grasses rustled in the heat; I even heard the silence of his feet Down the slow hill--And now the dawning birth Of beauty woke my senses to the earth Unveiled in radiance. The sweeping skies-- Unseen unless reflected in his eyes-- Marshalled cloud companies with new delight; Just for us two the spangled dome of night Swung out the journeying moon. But still I hold Burnt in my memory in beaten gold Days when the Spring stirred in each waking bush A blue-flecked jay or tawny-feathered thrush, And drowsy Winter, startled unawares By arc-winged partridges or listening hares, Fled guiltily. We heard the magpies call-- Those dominoes at Nature’s carnival-- And once a kingfisher, a lovely gleam Snatched from a rainbow, darted to a stream. The snowdrops bowed their heads for us to see Shy peeping buds of hooded chastity; And stalwart cowslips raised sun-glinted eyes To those who stooped to pluck their sanctities. Grass-nestled crocuses that scorn the wind Speared upward proudly and besought mankind To step with care. Near by, we searched a glade Where violets brood in sweetness, half afraid To wake their petals. On we roamed, and soon The flower that shares her secret with the moon In pale gold fellowship peeped out, among A host of truculent daffodils that flung Their trumpets down the wind. Each breathless day Broke to fulfil its promise, till the May Had fledged her clustered blooms and swung her pride In bowing sweetness to the country side. Beauty was born again. But now the sound Of heavy Autumn patters to the ground, And loud discordant booms of thunder roll Where that enchanted owner of my soul Lies dead, or dying, or is living still: At last the fibres of my struggling will Falter exhausted, and my cowering brain Cries out in anguish like a child in pain.