A tall lean man he was, proud of his gun, Of his garden, and small fruit trees every one Knowing all weather signs, the flight of birds, Farther than I could hear the falling thirds Of the first cuckoo. Able at digging, he Smoked his pipe ever, furiously, contentedly. Full of old country tales his memory was; Yarns of both sea and land, full of wise saws In rough fine speech; sayings his father had, That worked a twelve-hour day when but a lad. Handy with timber, nothing came amiss To his quick skill; and all the mysteries Of sail-making, net-making, boat-building were his. That dark face lit with bright bird-eyes, his stride Manner most friendly courteous, stubborn pride, I shall not forget, not yet his patience With me, unapt, though many a far league hence I’ll travel for many a year, nor ever find A winter-night companion more to my mind, Nor one more wise in ways of Severn river, Though her villages I search for ever and ever. THE REVELLERS I saw a silver-bright shield hang Entangled in the topmost boughs Of an old elm-tree, and a house Dreaming; the while a small stream sang A tune of broken silver by, And laughed and wondered at the sky. A thousand thousand silver lamps Dared the bright moon of stars. O! who, Wandering that silver quiet through, Might heed the river-mists, dew-damps? All Heaven exulted, but Earth lay Breathless and tranced in peace alway. From the orange-windowed tavern near A song some ancient lover had-- When stars and longing made him mad-- Fashioned from wonder at his dear, Rang out. Yet none there moves a limb To see such stars as passioned him. The loth moon left the twigs and gazed Full-fronted at the road, the stream, That all but tiniest tunes adream Stilled, held breath at last amazed. The farmers from their revel came; But no stars saw, and felt no flame. “ANNIE LAURIE” (TO H. N. H.) The high barn’s lit by many a guttering flare Of flickering candle, dangerous--(hence forbidden)-- To warm soft straw, whereby the cold floor’s hidden, On which we soon shall rest without a care. War is forgotten. Gossip fills the air Of home, and laughter sounds beyond the midden Under the stars, where Youth makes Joy unchidden Of gods or men, and mocks at sorrow there. But hark! what sudden pure untainted passion Seizes us now, and stills the garrulous? A song of old immortal dedication To Beauty’s service and one woman’s heart. No tears we show, no sign of flame in us This hour of stars and music set apart. THE BATTALION IS NOW ON REST (TO “LA COMTESSE”)