It rained, the wet poured from the leaves; They by the churchyard; entered in And sheltered underneath the eaves— So sweetly close; yet firm her chin. Her warmth, her fragrance, thrilled his blood; And she—half frightened and half kind— Whispered the warning words “be good,” But left his venturous arm entwined. When the shower stopped his hopes sank low, Farewell kind walls and darkling spire! They walked forlornly down Church Row; Her eyes grown big; his lips on fire. Down Frognal Lane to Fortune Green— There parted, by a watery moon. His heart went throbbing “Might have been,” But hers a-trembling “Not too soon.” VI At Jack Straw’s Castle, streaks of yellow light Pour from the bar upon a preacher’s head Who howls unheeded warnings to the night: Two p’licemen say he ought to be in bed. Lonely young men walk, eager, to and fro And search the passing faces—some find mates; Against the railings leans a giggling row; An amorous chauffeur puffs his horn and waits. The crowds move up and down, white dresses gleam; Some strolling niggers play a tune that trips, While couples meet and glance, then leave the stream, And youths look plaintively at young girls’ lips. VII So, to the Pines. Ah, here, in the hush’d blue You may spy cities, dim in the dim sky, Stretching-strange roadways to the inner view. See! See!—oh, loved one, see! Hope shall not die.... _Oak Hill Way_ _He_: May I stop and kiss you here, O, my dear? _She_: You may stop, but I’ll not stay: I’m going homewards now—Good day! _He_: Here’s a lane, and quiet, too: ’Tis where the folks from London woo, Two and two. _She_: It leads to Kilburn, where I live: I promised I’d be back at five— I must be quick or I’ll be late, No, no—I dare not wait. _He_: See, Maggie, it’s called Lover’s Lane, So other’s girls are kind, that’s plain. This love’s a thing that all men know; There, link your arm in my arm—so. _She_: I didn’t think you were so silly: Walk up—it’s chilly. _He_: O, since in life there’s little bliss, And most of it lies in a kiss— Don’t turn those cruel lips away, But just one moment, Maggie, stay! ... Lor! here’s the blessed street. Oh! why.... _She_: You foolish lad, don’t _ask_. Good-bye! _Spaniards’_ The moon shone withering, wild and white, And ruddy gleamed the bars, And far below, the city’s light Streamed up to meet the stars. “Look down,” ses Tom, “them streets that shine, And look, the gaudy sky! By God, to-night, my girl, you’re mine” —And glad enough was I. Oh, why did blow so soft and warm That breeze on Spaniards’ Road! I never thought to take no harm, Nor bear so hard a load. 1913. _Richmond Park_ I