She dwelt where ’twixt low-beaten thorns Two mill-blades, like a snail, Enormous, with inquiring horns, Looked down on half the vale. You know the grey of dew on grass Ere with the young sun fired, And you know well the thirst one has For the coming and desired. Quick in our ring she leapt, and gave Her hand to left, to right. No claim on her had any, save To feed the joy of sight. For man and maid a laughing word She tossed, in notes as clear As when the February bird Sings out that Spring is near. Of what befell behind that scone, Let none who knows reveal. In ballad days she might have been A heroine rousing steel. On us did she bestow the hour, And fixed it firm in thought; Her spirit like a meadow flower That gives, and asks for nought. She seemed to make the sunlight stay And show her in its pride. O she was fair as a beech in May With the sun on the yonder side. There was more life than breath can give, In the looks in her fair form; For little can we say we live Until the heart is warm. FRAGMENTS OPEN horizons round, O mounting mind, to scenes unsung, Wherein shall walk a lusty Time: Our Earth is young; Of measure without bound; Infinite are the heights to climb, The depths to sound. * * * * * A WILDING little stubble flower The sickle scorned which cut for wheat, Such was our hope in that dark hour When nought save uses held the street, And daily pleasures, daily needs, With barren vision, looked ahead. And still the same result of seeds Gave likeness ’twixt the live and dead. * * * * * FROM labours through the night, outworn, Above the hills the front of morn We see, whose eyes to heights are raised, And the world’s wise may deem us crazed. While yet her lord lies under seas, She takes us as the wind the trees’ Delighted leafage; all in song We mount to her, to her belong. * * * * * THIS love of nature, that allures to take Irregularity for harmony Of larger scope than our hard measures make, Cherish it as thy school for when on thee The ills of life descend. IL Y A CENT ANS THAT march of the funereal Past behold; How Glory sat on Bondage for its throne; How men, like dazzled insects, through the mould Still worked their way, and bled to keep their own. We know them, as they strove and wrought and yearned; Their hopes, their fears; what page of Life they wist: At whiles their vision upon us was turned, Baffled by shapes limmed loosely on thick mist. Beneath the fortress bulk of Power they bent Blunt heads, adoring or in shackled hate, All save the rebel hymned him; and it meant A world submitting to incarnate Fate.