But now that grey November peers In at my fire-bright window pane? And all its misty spires and trees Loom in upon me through the rain And question of the light that cheers The room within--now my soul sees Life, where of old were sepulchres; And in these new-found sympathies Sinks petty hopes and loves and fears, And knows that life is not in vain. TWO REALITIES. A waggon passed with scarlet wheels And a yellow body, shining new. "Splendid!" said I. "How fine it feels To be alive, when beauty peels The grimy husk from life." And you Said, "Splendid!" and I thought you'd seen That waggon blazing down the street; But I looked and saw that your gaze had been On a child that was kicking an obscene Brown ordure with his feet. Our souls are elephants, thought I, Remote behind a prisoning grill, With trunks thrust out to peer and pry And pounce upon reality; And each at his own sweet will Seizes the bun that he likes best And passes over all the rest. QUOTIDIAN VISION. There is a sadness in the street, And sullenly the folk I meet Droop their heads as they walk along, Without a smile, without a song. A mist of cold and muffling grey Falls, fold by fold, on another day That dies unwept. But suddenly, Under a tunnelled arch I see On flank and haunch the chestnut gleam Of horses in a lamplit steam; And the dead world moves for me once more With beauty for its living core. VISION. I had been sitting alone with books, Till doubt was a black disease, When I heard the cheerful shout of rooks In the bare, prophetic trees. Bare trees, prophetic of new birth, You lift your branches clean and free To be a beacon to the earth, A flame of wrath for all to see. And the rooks in the branches laugh and shout To those that can hear and understand; "Walk through the gloomy ways of doubt With the torch of vision in your hand." THE MIRROR. Slow-moving moonlight once did pass Across the dreaming looking-glass, Where, sunk inviolably deep, Old secrets unforgotten sleep Of beauties unforgettable. But dusty cobwebs are woven now Across that mirror, which of old Saw fingers drawing back the gold From an untroubled brow; And the depths are blinded to the moon, And their secrets forgotten, for ever untold. VARIATIONS ON A THEME OF LAFORGUE. Youth as it opens out discloses The sinister metempsychosis Of lilies dead and turned to roses Red as an angry dawn. But lilies, remember, are grave-side flowers, While slow bright rose-leaves sail Adrift on the music of happiest hours; And those lilies, cold and pale, Hide fiery roses beneath the lawn Of the young bride's parting veil.