Yet where he lies in this deserted place Divided by his narrow grave we sit, Welded together by the depths of it, Watching the years pass, with averted face. We do not mourn for him, for here is peace; The old unrest frets not these empty years; With him went smiles a few, and many tears, And peace is sweeter far than those or these. Only--we owe him nothing. If he gave, We too gave gifts--his gifts were less than ours: We gave the world, that held so many flowers For this--the world that only holds his grave. TEINT NEUTRE Wide downs all gray, with gray of clouds roofed over, Chill fields stripped naked of their gown of grain, Small fields of rain-wet grass and close-grown clover, Wet, wind-blown trees--and, over all, the rain. Does memory lie? For Hope her missal closes So far away the may and roses seem; Ah! was there ever a garden red with roses? Ah! were you ever mine save in a dream? So long it is since Spring, the skylark waking Heard her own praises in his perfect strain; Low hang the clouds, the sad year’s heart is breaking, And mine, my heart--and, over all, the rain. OUT OF HOPE If through the rain and wind along the street, Where the wet stone reflects the flickering gas, Some weeping autumn night your wandering feet, Lost in a lonely world, should chance to pass; If, passing many doors that welcomed you When robes of good renown your dear name wore, Your feet again, as once they used to do, Paused at my door,-- Should I shut fast my heart for the old ill, The old wrong done, the sorrow and the sin? Or--only knowing that I love you still-- Should I throw wide the door and let you in? Come--with your sins--my tears shall wash them all, The heart you broke still waits to be your home. Yet if you came.... Oh! lost beyond recall You never more will come. HAUNTED The house is haunted; when the little feet Go pattering about it in their play, I tremble lest the little one should meet The ghosts that haunt the happy night and day. And yet I think they only come to me; They come through night of ease and pleasant day To whisper of the torment that must be If I some day should be, alas! as they. And when the child is lying warm asleep, The ghosts draw back the curtain of my bed, And past them through the dreadful dark I creep, Clasp close the child, and so am comforted. Cling close, cling close, my darling, my delight, Sad voices on the wind come thin and wild, Ghosts of poor mothers crying in the night-- “Father, have pity--once I had a child!” A DIRGE