And by the churchyard as I came, It seemed my spirit passed Into a land that hath no name, Grey, melancholy and vast; Where nothing comes: but Memory, The widowed queen of Death, Reigns, and with fixed, sepulchral eye All slumber banisheth. Each grain of writhen dust, that drapes That sickly, staring shore, Its old chaotic change of shapes Remembers evermore. And ghosts of cities long decayed And ruined shrines of Fate Gather the paths, that Time hath made Foolish and desolate. Nor winter there hath hope of spring, Nor the pale night of day, Since the old king with scorpion sting Hath done himself away. * * * The morn was calm; the wind's last breath Had fal'n: in solemn hush The golden moon went down beneath The dawning's crimson flush. 16 NORTH WIND IN OCTOBER In the golden glade the chestnuts are fallen all; From the sered boughs of the oak the acorns fall: The beech scatters her ruddy fire; The lime hath stripped to the cold, And standeth naked above her yellow attire: The larch thinneth her spire To lay the ways of the wood with cloth of gold. Out of the golden-green and white Of the brake the fir-trees stand upright In the forest of flame, and wave aloft To the blue of heaven their blue-green tuftings soft. But swiftly in shuddering gloom the splendours fail, As the harrying North-wind beareth A cloud of skirmishing hail The grievèd woodland to smite: In a hurricane through the trees he teareth, Raking the boughs and the leaves rending, And whistleth to the descending Blows of his icy flail. Gold and snow he mixeth in spite, And whirleth afar; as away on his winnowing flight He passeth, and all again for awhile is bright. 17 FIRST SPRING MORNING A CHILD'S POEM. Look! Look! the spring is come: O feel the gentle air, That wanders thro' the boughs to burst The thick buds everywhere! The birds are glad to see The high unclouded sun: Winter is fled away, they sing, The gay time is begun. Adown the meadows green Let us go dance and play, And look for violets in the lane, And ramble far away To gather primroses, That in the woodland grow, And hunt for oxlips, or if yet The blades of bluebells show: There the old woodman gruff Hath half the coppice cut, And weaves the hurdles all day long Beside his willow hut. We'll steal on him, and then Startle him, all with glee Singing our song of winter fled And summer soon to be. 18 A VILLAGER There was no lad handsomer than Willie was The day that he came to father's house: There was none had an eye as soft an' blue As Willie's was, when he came to woo.