Scrawny, be-spectacled, out at heels, Such an one as the world feels A sort of curse against its guzzling And its age-lasting wallow for red greed And yet, full speed Though it should run for its own getting, Will turn aside to sneer at ’Cause he hath No coin, no will to snatch the aftermath Of Mammon. Such an one as women draw away from For the tobacco ashes scattered on his coat And sith his throat Show razor’s unfamiliarity And three days’ beard: Such an one picking a ragged Backless copy from the stall, Too cheap for cataloguing, Loquitur, “Ah-eh! the strange rare name ... Ah-eh! He must be rare if even _I_ have not .... And lost mid-page Such age As his pardons the habit, He analyzes form and thought to see How I ’scaped immortality. IN TEMPORE SENECTUTIS “For we are old And the earth passion dieth; We have watched him die a thousand times, When he wanes an old wind crieth, For we are old And passion hath died for us a thousand times But we grew never weary. Memory faileth, as the lotus-loved chimes Sink into fluttering of wind, But we grow never weary For we are old. The strange night-wonder of your eyes Dies not, though passion flieth Along the star fields of Arcturus And is no more unto our hands; My lips are cold. And yet we twain are never weary, And the strange night-wonder is upon us, The leaves hold our wonder in their flutterings, The wind fills our mouths with strange words For our wonder that grows not old. The moth-hour of our day is upon us Holding the dawn; There is strange Night-wonder in our eyes Because the Moth-Hour leadeth the dawn As a maiden, holding her fingers, The rosy, slender fingers of the dawn.” He saith: “Red spears bore the warrior dawn Of old Strange! Love, hast thou forgotten The red spears of the dawn, The pennants of the morning?” She saith: “Nay, I remember, but now Cometh the Dawn, and the Moth-Hour Together with him; softly For we are old.” CAMARADERIE “_E tuttoque io fosse a la campagnia di molti, quanto alla vista._” Sometimes I feel thy cheek against my face Close-pressing, soft as is the South’s first breath That all the subtle earth-things summoneth To spring in woodland and in meadow space. Yea sometimes in a bustling man-filled place Meseemeth some-wise thy hair wandereth Across mine eyes, as mist that halloweth The air awhile and giveth all things grace. Or on still evenings when the rain falls close There comes a tremor in the drops, and fast My pulses run, knowing thy thought hath passed That beareth thee as doth the wind a rose. FOR E. McC.