They saw the Yell Brook like a gem Blue in the grass a short mile on; They heard faint cries, but hounds were gone A good eight fields and out of sight, Except a rippled glimmer white Going away with dying cheering, And scarlet flappings disappearing, And scattering horses going, going, Going like mad, White Rabbit snowing Far on ahead, a loose horse taking Fence after fence with stirrups shaking, And scarlet specks and dark specks dwindling. * * * * * Nearer, were twigs knocked into kindling, A much bashed fence still dropping stick, Flung clods still quivering from the kick; Cut hoof-marks pale in cheesy clay, The horse-smell blowing clean away; Birds flitting back into the cover. One last faint cry, then all was over. The hunt had been, and found, and gone. * * * * * _Selections from_ _ENSLAVED_ All early in the April, when daylight comes at five, I went into the garden most glad to be alive; The thrushes and the blackbirds were singing in the thorn, The April flowers were singing for joy of being born. I smelt the dewy morning come blowing through the woods Where all the wilding cherries do toss their snowy snoods; I thought of the running water where sweet white violets grow. I said: “I’ll pick them for her; because she loves them so.” So in the dewy morning I turned to climb the hill, Beside the running water whose tongue is never still. Oh, delicate green and dewy were all the budding trees; The blue dog-violets grew there, and many primroses. Out of the wood I wandered, but paused upon the heath To watch, beyond the tree-tops, the wrinkled sea beneath; Its blueness and its stillness were trembling as it lay In the old un-autumned beauty that never goes away. And the beauty of the water brought my love into my mind, Because all sweet love is beauty, and the loved thing turns to kind; And I thought, “It is a beauty spread for setting of your grace, O white violet of a woman with the April in your face.” So I gathered the white violets where young men pick them still, And I turned to cross the woodland to her house beneath the hill, And I thought of her delight in the flowers that I brought her, Bright like sunlight, sweet like singing, cool like running of the water. * * * * * THE KHALIF’S JUDGMENT. They took us to a palace, to a chamber Smelling of bruisèd spice and burning amber. There slaves were sent to fetch the newly risen Servants and warders of the woman’s prison. The white of death was on them when they came. * * * * *