The deepest solitude can bring Only a subtler questioning In thy divided heart; thy bed Recalls at dawn what midnight said; Seek how thou wilt to feign content Thy flaming ardour's quickly spent; Soon thy last company is gone, And leaves thee--with thyself--alone. Pomp and great friends may hem thee round, A thousand busy tasks be found; Earth's thronging beauties may beguile Thy longing lovesick heart awhile; And pride, like clouds of sunset, spread A changing glory round thy head; But fade will all; and thou must come, Hating thy journey, homeless, home. Rave how thou wilt; unmoved, remote, That inward presence slumbers not, Frets out each secret from thy breast, Gives thee no rally, pause, nor rest, Scans close thy very thoughts, lest they Should sap his patient power away, Answers thy wrath with peace, thy cry With tenderest taciturnity. SILENCE With changeful sound life beats upon the ear; Yet striving for release The most delighting string's Sweet jargonings, The happiest throat's Most easeful, lovely notes Fall back into a veiling silentness. Even 'mid the rumour of a moving host, Blackening the clear green earth, Vainly 'gainst that thin wall The trumpets call, Or with loud hum The smoke-bemuffled drum: From that high quietness no reply comes forth. When all at peace, two friends at ease alone Talk out their hearts,--yet still, Between the grace-notes of The voice of love From each to each Trembles a rarer speech, And with its presence every pause doth fill. Unmoved it broods, this all-encompassing hush Of one who stooping near, No smallest stir will make Our fear to wake; But yet intent Upon some mystery bent, Hearkens the lightest word we say, or hear. WINTER DUSK Dark frost was in the air without, The dusk was still with cold and gloom, When less than even a shadow came And stood within the room. But of the three around the fire, None turned a questioning head to look, Still read a clear voice, on and on, Still stooped they o'er their book. The children watched their mother's eyes Moving on softly line to line; It seemed to listen too--that shade, Yet made no outward sign. The fire-flames crooned a tiny song, No cold wind moved the wintry tree; The children both in Faërie dreamed Beside their mother's knee. And nearer yet that spirit drew Above that heedless one, intent Only on what the simple words Of her small story meant. No voiceless sorrow grieved her mind, No memory her bosom stirred, Nor dreamed she, as she read to two, 'Twas surely three who heard. Yet when, the story done, she smiled From face to face, serene and clear, A love, half dread, sprang up, as she Leaned close and drew them near. AGES AGO Launcelot loved Guinevere, Ages and ages ago, Beautiful as a bird was she, Preening its wings in a cypress tree, Happy in sadness, she and he, They loved each other so.