_Passion_, grown portly, something middle-aged; And _Friendship_—not a minute older, she; _Impatience_, ever taking out his watch; _Faith_, who was deaf, and had to lean to catch Old _Wisdom’s_ endless drone. _Beauty_ was there, Pale in her black; dry-eyed; she stood alone. Poor maz’d _Imagination_; _Fancy_ wild; _Ardour_, the sunlight on his greying hair; _Contentment_, who had known _Youth_ as a child And never seen him since. And _Spring_ came too, Dancing over the tombs, and brought him flowers— She did not stay for long. And _Truth_, and _Grace_, and all the merry crew, The laughing _Winds_ and _Rivers_, and lithe _Hours_; And _Hope_, the dewy-eyed; and sorrowing _Song_;— Yes, with much woe and mourning general, At dead _Youth’s_ funeral, Even these were met once more together, all, Who erst the fair and living _Youth_ did know; All, except only _Love_. _Love_ had died long ago. *Beauty and Beauty* When Beauty and Beauty meet All naked, fair to fair, The earth is crying-sweet, And scattering-bright the air, Eddying, dizzying, closing round, With soft and drunken laughter; Veiling all that may befall After—after— Where Beauty and Beauty met, Earth’s still a-tremble there, And winds are scented yet, And memory-soft the air, Bosoming, folding glints of light, And shreds of shadowy laughter; Not the tears that fill the years After—after— *The Chilterns* Your hands, my dear, adorable, Your lips of tenderness —Oh, I’ve loved you faithfully and well, Three years, or a bit less. It wasn’t a success. Thank God, that’s done! and I’ll take the road, Quit of my youth and you, The Roman road to Wendover By Tring and Lilley Hoo, As a free man may do. For youth goes over, the joys that fly, The tears that follow fast; And the dirtiest things we do must lie Forgotten at the last; Even Love goes past. What’s left behind I shall not find, The splendour and the pain; The splash of sun, the shouting wind, And the brave sting of rain, I may not meet again. But the years, that take the best away, Give something in the end; And a better friend than love have they, For none to mar or mend, That have themselves to friend. I shall desire and I shall find The best of my desires; The autumn road, the mellow wind That soothes the darkening shires. And laughter, and inn-fires. White mist about the black hedgerows, The slumbering Midland plain, The silence where the clover grows, And the dead leaves in the lane, Certainly, these remain.