That I were Corot! Then September's gold Would I store up in painted treasuries That, when the world seemed grey I could behold Its blazing colour with sweet memories, And each elusive colour would be mine That decorates these afternoons benign. Ah! Then I could enshrine each fleeting hue Which dyes the woodland, and enslave the blue Of sky and haze, with genius divine. How sad these wishes! When I have no art Of poetry, or music, or of brush, With which to calm the swelling of my heart By capturing the misty country's hush In muted violins; I cannot hymn The shadowy silence of the copses dim; Nor can I paint September's sky-crowned hills. Gone then, the wonder which my vision fills, When all the earth is bound by Winter grim! WESTGATE. _To Hilda_: ON HER SEVENTEENTH BIRTHDAY. Now has rich time brought you a gift of gold-- A long sweet year which you can shape at will, And deck with roses warm, or with the chill And heartless lilies--GOD gives strength to mould Our days, and lives, with fingers firm and bold, And make them noble, straight and clean from ill, Though few are willing, and their years they fill With dross which they regret when they are old. What splendid hours of your life are these When youth and childhood wander hand in hand, And give you freely all which best can please-- Laughter and friends and dreams of Fairyland! Mourn not the seasons past with useless tears, But greet the pleasure of the coming years! FRANCE, 1917. _Clouds_