Above the crooked roofs the clouds go sailing; And near the stream, where once I fished for grayling, The crusty oberkelner stands and scolds. My rod still hangs upon three nails a-row, Just where I placed it, if they've left it so, I'd like to take one little peep and know. And every time the landlord looks that way He thinks of me; and will for many a day. I helped to break up Germany, he'll say. The little fishes flick their tails, and rise; They fear no English feathers in their flies. And I am back in Yorkshire, growing wise. THE SOLDIERS As the soldiers march along All the air is filled with song. As the soldiers charge with cheers All the air is drenched with tears. And when they take their ease at night The cypress-trees are clothed in white. GREIFSWALD, 1909 I was sick with pain, once, Sick with pain. And an old witch drew to my side And healed me again. She was withered, and wretched, and gray, Deep stabbed with years. And the skin of her face was scarred With hate and tears. She had lived fierce days in that town The sea-winds flog. Hourly the neighbours jibed, Cast stones at a dog. They had slandered her, tricked her; robbed her Of honour and purse. But her wrongs slept deep in her heart For the fiends to nurse. One went blind; another stark mad,-- He's dead. Fruit of the curse she flung. "Old witch," they said. Life ran high there; men nourished their hates And slashed with swords. Harsh skies swerved to the rim of the bay,-- Sweden seawards. And I lay in her bare, clean room At the stairway's end. And the fierce pain clutched me and held me; And nought would fend. "O mother," I cried--and she leaned to me-- "Give me your hand's touch. They have broken me too, and flung me This same blind crutch." And she placed her hand in my hand; And her touch thrilled me. And the blood ran warm in my veins; And her dead life healed me. She was wasted, arid as one Whom no sun cheers. But her dead life flowered that day Down sixty years. THE PUPIL: RHINELAND "Mister, I do not like the task. 'Tis dull to-day, you're tired, too. But, Mister, I've a thing to ask;-- _Am I not beautiful?_ Speak true." Now, God save all poor tutor-men From Innocence so rapt and sly, And send the plainest student-girls To one so passion-starved as I. She sat within my student's room In the twilight hour when the shadows stir; Red lights of sunset swirled the gloom And rested, glimmering, on her hair. Coil upon coil it wreathed her crown In a crushing aureole of flame. And her brows of alabaster shone As pure as Mary's of Bethlehem. Her eyes,--I never knew their hue-- Drowsed, smouldering, in the burning dusk. And somewhere out of the earth's view A planet sang, and the air breathed musk. THE BUSHRANGERS