Never again will he come, with rings in his ears like a pirate, Back to be living and seen, here with his roses and vines; Here where the tenants are shadows and echoes of years uneventful, Memory meets the event, told from afar by the sea. Smoke that floated and rolled in the twilight away from the chimney Floats and rolls no more. Wheeling and falling, instead, Down with a twittering flash go the smooth and inscrutable swallows, Down to the place made theirs by the cold work of the sea. Roses have had their day, and the dusk is on yarrow and wormwood-- Dusk that is over the grass, drenched with memorial dew; Trellises lie like bones in a ruin that once was a garden, Swallows have lingered and ceased, shadows and echoes are all. II Where is he lying to-night, as I turn away down to the valley, Down where the lamps of men tell me the streets are alive? Where shall I ask, and of whom, in the town or on land or on water, News of a time and a place buried alike and with him? Few now remain who may care, nor may they be wiser for caring, Where or what manner the doom, whether by day or by night; Whether in Indian deeps or on flood-laden fields of Atlantis, Or by the roaring Horn, shrouded in silence he lies. Few now remain who return by the weed-weary path to his cottage, Drawn by the scene as it was--met by the chill and the change; Few are alive who report, and few are alive who remember, More of him now than a name carved somewhere on the sea. “Where is he lying?” I ask, and the lights in the valley are nearer; Down to the streets I go, down to the murmur of men. Down to the roar of the sea in a ship may be well for another-- Down where he lies to-night, silent, and under the storms. MOMUS “Where’s the need of singing now?”-- Smooth your brow, Momus, and be reconciled, For King Kronos is a child-- Child and father, Or god rather, And all gods are wild. “Who reads Byron any more?”-- Shut the door, Momus, for I feel a draught; Shut it quick, for some one laughed.-- “What’s become of Browning? Some of Wordsworth lumbers like a raft? “What are poets to find here?”-- Have no fear: When the stars are shining blue There will yet be left a few Themes availing-- And these failing, Momus, there’ll be you. UNCLE ANANIAS His words were magic and his heart was true, And everywhere he wandered he was blessed. Out of all ancient men my childhood knew I choose him and I mark him for the best. Of all authoritative liars, too, I crown him loveliest. How fondly I remember the delight That always glorified him in the spring; The joyous courage and the benedight Profusion of his faith in everything! He was a good old man, and it was right That he should have his fling.