“Stand waiting, waiting under skies That blow reproach, the while I see The rooks sheer off to where he lies Wrapt in a peace withheld from me.” THE CHEVAL-GLASS WHY do you harbour that great cheval-glass Filling up your narrow room? You never preen or plume, Or look in a week at your full-length figure— Picture of bachelor gloom! “Well, when I dwelt in ancient England, Renting the valley farm, Thoughtless of all heart-harm, I used to gaze at the parson’s daughter, A creature of nameless charm. “Thither there came a lover and won her, Carried her off from my view. O it was then I knew Misery of a cast undreamt of— More than, indeed, my due! “Then far rumours of her ill-usage Came, like a chilling breath When a man languisheth; Followed by news that her mind lost balance, And, in a space, of her death. “Soon sank her father; and next was the auction— Everything to be sold: Mid things new and old Stood this glass in her former chamber, Long in her use, I was told. “Well, I awaited the sale and bought it . . . There by my bed it stands, And as the dawn expands Often I see her pale-faced form there Brushing her hair’s bright bands. “There, too, at pallid midnight moments Quick she will come to my call, Smile from the frame withal Ponderingly, as she used to regard me Passing her father’s wall. “So that it was for its revelations I brought it oversea, And drag it about with me . . . Anon I shall break it and bury its fragments Where my grave is to be.” THE RE-ENACTMENT BETWEEN the folding sea-downs, In the gloom Of a wailful wintry nightfall, When the boom Of the ocean, like a hammering in a hollow tomb, Throbbed up the copse-clothed valley From the shore To the chamber where I darkled, Sunk and sore With gray ponderings why my Loved one had not come before To salute me in the dwelling That of late I had hired to waste a while in— Vague of date, Quaint, and remote—wherein I now expectant sate; On the solitude, unsignalled, Broke a man Who, in air as if at home there, Seemed to scan Every fire-flecked nook of the apartment span by span. A stranger’s and no lover’s Eyes were these, Eyes of a man who measures What he sees But vaguely, as if wrapt in filmy phantasies. Yea, his bearing was so absent As he stood, It bespoke a chord so plaintive In his mood, That soon I judged he would not wrong my quietude. “Ah—the supper is just ready,” Then he said, “And the years’-long binned Madeira Flashes red!” (There was no wine, no food, no supper-table spread.)