Do you remember that delightful Inn At Chester and the Roman wall, and how We walked from Avon clear to Kenilworth? And afterward when you and I came down To London, I forsook the murky town, And left you to quaint ways and crowded places, While I went on to Putney just to see Old Swinburne and to look into his face's Changeable lights and shadows and to seize on A finer thing than any verse he wrote? (Oh beautiful illusions of our youth!) He did not see me gladly. Talked of treason To England's greatness. What was Camden like? Did old Walt Whitman smoke or did he drink? And Longfellow was sweet, but couldn't think. His mood was crusty. Lowell made him laugh! Meantime Watts-Dunton came and broke in half My visit, so I left. The thing was this: None of this talk was Swinburne any more Than some child of his loins would take his hair, Eyes, skin, from him in some pangenesis,-- His flesh was nothing but a poor affair, A channel for the eternal stream--his flesh Gave nothing closer, mind you, than his book, But rather blurred it; even his eyes' look Confused "Madonna Mia" from its fresh And liquid meaning. So I knew at last His real immortal self is in his verse. * * * * * Since you have gone I've thought of this so much. I cannot lose you in this universe-- I first must lose myself. The essential touch Of soul possession lies not in the walk Of daily life on earth, nor in the talk Of daily things, nor in the sight of eyes Looking in other eyes, nor daily bread Broken together, nor the hour of love When flesh surrenders depths of things divine Beyond all vision, as they were the dream Of other planets, but without these even In death and separation, there is heaven: By just that unison and its memory Which brought our lips together. To be free From accidents of being, to be freeing The soul from trammels on essential being, Is to possess the loved one. I have strayed Into the only heaven God has made: That's where we know each other as we are, In the bright ether of some quiet star, Communing as two memories with each other. CANTICLE OF THE RACE SONG OF MEN How beautiful are the bodies of men-- The agonists! Their hearts beat deep as a brazen gong For their strength's behests. Their arms are lithe as a seasoned thong In games or tests When they run or box or swim the long Sea-waves crests With their slender legs, and their hips so strong, And their rounded chests.