She would not answer us if we should call Across the years: her visions are too fair; And what care we how many petals fall! She knows us not, nor recks if she enthrall With voice and eyes and fashion of her hair, A little, passionately, not at all! Knee-deep she goes in meadow grasses tall, Kissed by the daisies that her fingers tear: And what care we how many petals fall! We pass and go: but she shall not recall What men we were, nor all she made us bear: "_A little, passionately, not at all!_" And what care we how many petals fall! YVONNE OF BRITTANY In your mother's apple-orchard, Just a year ago, last spring: Do you remember, Yvonne! The dear trees lavishing Rain of their starry blossoms To make you a coronet? Do you ever remember, Yvonne? As I remember yet. In your mother's apple-orchard, When the world was left behind: You were shy, so shy, Yvonne! But your eyes were calm and kind. We spoke of the apple harvest, When the cider press is set, And such-like trifles, Yvonne! That doubtless you forget. In the still, soft Breton twilight, We were silent; words were few, Till your mother came out chiding, For the grass was bright with dew: But I know your heart was beating, Like a fluttered, frightened dove. Do you ever remember, Yvonne? That first faint flush of love? In the fulness of midsummer, When the apple-bloom was shed, Oh, brave was your surrender, Though shy the words you said. I was glad, so glad, Yvonne! To have led you home at last; Do you ever remember, Yvonne! How swiftly the days passed? YVONNE OF BRITTANY In your mother's apple-orchard It is grown too dark to stray, There is none to chide you, Yvonne! You are over far away. There is dew on your grave grass, Yvonne! But your feet it shall not wet: No, you never remember, Yvonne! And I shall soon forget. BENEDICTIO DOMINI Without, the sullen noises of the street! The voice of London, inarticulate, Hoarse and blaspheming, surges in to meet The silent blessing of the Immaculate. Dark is the church, and dim the worshippers, Hushed with bowed heads as though by some old spell. While through the incense-laden air there stirs The admonition of a silver bell. Dark is the church, save where the altar stands, Dressed like a bride, illustrious with light, Where one old priest exalts with tremulous hands The one true solace of man's fallen plight. Strange silence here: without, the sounding street Heralds the world's swift passage to the fire: O Benediction, perfect and complete! When shall men cease to suffer and desire? GROWTH