Lo, all the way, Look you, I said, the clouds will break, the sky Grow clear, the road Be easier for my travelling, the fields, So sodden and dead, Will shimmer with new green and starry bloom, And there will be, There will be then, with all serene and fair, Some little while For some light laughter in the sun; and lo, The journey's end-- Grey road, grey fields, wind and a bitter rain. AUTUMN Fugitive, wistful, Pausing at edge of her going, Autumn the maiden turns, Leans to the earth with ineffable Gesture. Ah, more than Spring's skies her skies shine Tender, and frailer Bloom than plum-bloom or almond Lies on her hillsides, her fields Misted, faint-flushing. Ah, lovelier Is her refusal than Yielding, who pauses with grave Backward smiling, with light Unforgettable touch of Fingers withdrawn. . . Pauses, lo Vanishes . . . fugitive, wistful. . . . THE ELGIN MARBLES The clustered Gods, the marching lads, The mighty-limbed, deep-bosomed Three, The shimmering grey-gold London fog. . . . I wish that Phidias could see! THE CRUCIFIXION _And the centurion who stood by said: Truly this was a son of God._ Not long ago but everywhere I go There is a hill and a black windy sky. Portent of hill, sky, day's eclipse I know: Hill, sky, the shuddering darkness, these am I. The dying at His right hand, at His left I am--the thief redeemed and the lost thief; I am the careless folk; I those bereft, The Well-Belov'd, the women bowed in grief. The gathering Presence that in terror cried, In earth's shock, in the Temple's veil rent through, I; and a watcher, ignorant, curious-eyed, I the centurion who heard and knew. THE FIDDLING LAD "There'll be no roof to shelter you; You'll have no where to lay your head. And who will get your food for you? Star-dust pays for no man's bread. _So, Jacky, come give me your fiddle If ever you mean to thrive."_ "I'll have the skies to shelter me, The green grass it shall be my bed, And happen I'll find somewhere for me A sup of drink, a bit of bread; _And I'll not give my fiddle To any man alive."_ And it's out he went across the wold, His fiddle tucked beneath his chin, And (golden bow on silver strings) Smiling he fiddled the twilight in; And fiddled in the frosty moon, And all the stars of the Milky Way, And fiddled low through the dark of dawn, And laughed and fiddled in the day. But oh, he had no bit nor sup, And oh, the winds blew stark and cold, And when he dropped on his grass-green bed It's long he slept on the open wold. They digged his grave and, "There," they said, "He's got more land than ever he had, And well it will keep him held and housed, The feckless bit of a fiddling lad." And it's out he's stepped across the wold His fiddle tucked beneath his chin-- A wavering shape in the wavering light, Smiling he fiddles the twilight in,