Black rooks about the trees Are circling slow; Tall elms that can no ease Nor comfort know, Since that the Autumn wind Batters them before, behind, A bitter breeze unkind. They call like tongues of dread Prophesying woe, Rooks on the sunset red, Not heeding how Their clamouring brings near To a woman the old fear For her far soldier dear. That harsh and idle crying Of mere annoy Tells her how men are dying, And how her boy May lie, his racked thought turning To the home fire on the hearth burning, The last agony be learning. ETERNAL TREASURE (TO H. N. H.) Why think on Beauty as for ever lost When fire and steel have worked their evil will, Since Beauty lasts beyond decaying dust, And in the after-dark is lovely still? We are no phantoms; Body is but the case Of an immortal Flame that does not perish, Can the all-withering power of Time outface, Since God Himself with love that flame does cherish. Take comfort then, and dare the dangerous thing, Death flouting with his impotence of wrath; For Beauty arms us ’gainst his envious sting, Safes us in any the most perilous path. Come then, O brothers, greet what may befall With Joy, for Beauty’s Maker ordereth all. FIRE IN THE DUSK When your white hands have lost their fairy power, Like dimpling water flash and charm no more, Quick pride of grace is still, closed your bright eyes-- I still must think, under those Northern skies, Some influence shall remain of all that sweet; Some flower of courage braving Easter sleet; Colour to stir tears in tenderest skies; Music of light. Your Autumn beeches shall Set passion blazing in a heart until Colour you gave be fashioned in formal line On line; another’s beauty prove divine, And all your wandering grace shall not be lost To earth, being too precious, too great of cost-- Last wonder to awake the divine spark, A lovely presence lighting Summer’s dark; Though dust your frame of flesh, such dust as makes Blue radiance of March in hidden brakes.... Pass from your body then, be what you will, Whose light-foot walk outdanced the daffodil, Since Time can but confirm you and fulfil That hidden crescent power in you--Old Time, Spoiler of pride, and towers, and breath, and rhyme, Yet on the spirit impotent of power and will. TURMUT-HOEING I straightened my back from turmut-hoeing And saw, with suddenly opened eyes, Tall trees, a meadow ripe for mowing, And azure June’s cloud-circled skies. Below, the earth was beautiful Of touch and colour, fair each weed, But Heaven’s high beauty held me still, Only of music had I need.