“The architect was hired And came here on smart summons as desired, But never the descendant came to tell him What he required.” And so the tomb remained Untouched, untended, crumbling, weather-stained, And though the one-time foe was fain to right it He still refrained. “I’ll set about it when I am sure he’ll come no more. Best wait till then.” But so it was that never the stranger entered That city again. And the well-meaner died While waiting tremulously unsatisfied That no return of the family’s foreign scion Would still betide. And many years slid by, And active church-restorers cast their eye Upon the ancient garth and hoary building The tomb stood nigh. And when they had scraped each wall, Pulled out the stately pews, and smartened all, “It will be well,” declared the spruce church-warden, “To overhaul “And broaden this path where shown; Nothing prevents it but an old tombstone Pertaining to a family forgotten, Of deeds unknown. “Their names can scarce be read, Depend on’t, all who care for them are dead.” So went the tomb, whose shards were as path-paving Distributed. Over it and about Men’s footsteps beat, and wind and water-spout, Until the names, aforetime gnawed by weathers, Were quite worn out. So that no sage can say In pensive progress near where they decay, “This stone records a luminous line whose talents Told in their day.” “REGRET NOT ME” REGRET not me; Beneath the sunny tree I lie uncaring, slumbering peacefully. Swift as the light I flew my faery flight; Ecstatically I moved, and feared no night. I did not know That heydays fade and go, But deemed that what was would be always so. I skipped at morn Between the yellowing corn, Thinking it good and glorious to be born. I ran at eves Among the piled-up sheaves, Dreaming, “I grieve not, therefore nothing grieves.” Now soon will come The apple, pear, and plum And hinds will sing, and autumn insects hum. Again you will fare To cider-makings rare, And junketings; but I shall not be there. Yet gaily sing Until the pewter ring Those songs we sang when we went gipsying. And lightly dance Some triple-timed romance In coupled figures, and forget mischance; And mourn not me Beneath the yellowing tree; For I shall mind not, slumbering peacefully. THE RECALCITRANTS LET us off and search, and find a place Where yours and mine can be natural lives, Where no one comes who dissects and dives And proclaims that ours is a curious case, That its touch of romance can scarcely grace.