Now are they blue as night, your veiled large eyes, But pale fire lights them, fire o’ the moon. Oh, why do you gasp, with little tangled cries, And why do you seize my hand to let it fall so soon? 1911. _West End Lane_ Now through the dripping, moonless night, Up West End Lane and Frognal Rise, They trace their footsteps by the light Of love that fills their weary eyes. “Nellie, though Town’s a tiresome place, With far less joy in it than tears, To set my lips to your warm face Is worth a sight of dismal years!” “And I’m so happy, Jack, with you,” She whispers softly.... “See, the rain Has stopped, the clouds are broken through, The stars are shining clear again!” Pausing, they gaze across the Heath Submerged in fog—a dim hush’d lake Wherein the wretched might seek death, And lovers drown for dear Love’s sake. Then clasping hands, and touching lips, They dream beneath great sombre trees, Whence large and solemn-falling drips Are shaken by the restless breeze. “Oh, nothing’s half so sweet, my dear, As kisses in the quiet night: Lean close, and let me hold you near, Put out your arms, and clasp me tight! “Why, should we wait, so cold and wise? We’re only human, Nell, we two; And even if love fades and dies— I shall remember this: won’t you?” _Hampstead_ I Up from the desolate streets—the green, sweet hill! (All crossed with scented paths, shut in by garden walls And hung with shadowy trees—dark paths and still.) O, open plateau, glittering pond, and love that calls! Here, ah! here, to be gods, to forget! Here to leave home and troubles that soil and blear. Under the golden moon, when the sun has set, Here to forget and kiss—O joy bought dear! II I love those small old houses, with bright front doors, And shy windows that look on the Heath; they are quiet and gay: Old books, old silver they have (that my heart adores) And their women are slim, with soft voices; and kind things they say. Their lives are one exquisite tea—with the lamp unlit, In autumn and winter. In summer a rose Climbs in through the open window, caressing it; And always there are petit-fours, music, and dreams—and repose. III Fields where the ugly, with divine-grown eyes Bloom all to beauty of soft look and word. Trees, amorous trees, that fold maternal arms Over joined lips, and halting vows half-heard. IV Do you know Branch Hill? There are steps to the right When you reach the top, which climb to a walk Shaded by elm-trees of great girth and height; And there are seats there, where lovers talk. And all in front is a valley, wide and deep— In summer a place of murmurs and laughing sighs: In winter a sea of mists and deathly sleep, Pierced by faint sobs and drowning, desolate cries.... V