“And our wives?” quoth another resignedly, “Dwell they on our deeds?” —“Deeds of home; that live yet Fresh as new—deeds of fondness or fret; Ancient words that were kindly expressed or unkindly, These, these have their heeds.” XII —“Alas! then it seems that our glory Weighs less in their thought Than our old homely acts, And the long-ago commonplace facts Of our lives—held by us as scarce part of our story, And rated as nought!” XIII Then bitterly some: “Was it wise now To raise the tomb-door For such knowledge? Away!” But the rest: “Fame we prized till to-day; Yet that hearts keep us green for old kindness we prize now A thousand times more!” XIV Thus speaking, the trooped apparitions Began to disband And resolve them in two: Those whose record was lovely and true Bore to northward for home: those of bitter traditions Again left the land, XV And, towering to seaward in legions, They paused at a spot Overbending the Race— That engulphing, ghast, sinister place— Whither headlong they plunged, to the fathomless regions Of myriads forgot. XVI And the spirits of those who were homing Passed on, rushingly, Like the Pentecost Wind; And the whirr of their wayfaring thinned And surceased on the sky, and but left in the gloaming Sea-mutterings and me. _December_ 1899. SONG OF THE SOLDIERS’ WIVES I AT last! In sight of home again, Of home again; No more to range and roam again As at that bygone time? No more to go away from us And stay from us?— Dawn, hold not long the day from us, But quicken it to prime! II Now all the town shall ring to them, Shall ring to them, And we who love them cling to them And clasp them joyfully; And cry, “O much we’ll do for you Anew for you, Dear Loves!—aye, draw and hew for you, Come back from oversea.” III Some told us we should meet no more, Should meet no more; Should wait, and wish, but greet no more Your faces round our fires; That, in a while, uncharily And drearily Men gave their lives—even wearily, Like those whom living tires. IV And now you are nearing home again, Dears, home again; No more, may be, to roam again As at that bygone time, Which took you far away from us To stay from us; Dawn, hold not long the day from us, But quicken it to prime! THE SICK GOD