Why not sempiternal Thou and I? Our vernal Brightness keeping, Time outleaping; Passed the hodiernal! THOUGHTS OF PHENA AT NEWS OF HER DEATH NOT a line of her writing have I, Not a thread of her hair, No mark of her late time as dame in her dwelling, whereby I may picture her there; And in vain do I urge my unsight To conceive my lost prize At her close, whom I knew when her dreams were upbrimming with light, And with laughter her eyes. What scenes spread around her last days, Sad, shining, or dim? Did her gifts and compassions enray and enarch her sweet ways With an aureate nimb? Or did life-light decline from her years, And mischances control Her full day-star; unease, or regret, or forebodings, or fears Disennoble her soul? Thus I do but the phantom retain Of the maiden of yore As my relic; yet haply the best of her—fined in my brain It maybe the more That no line of her writing have I, Nor a thread of her hair, No mark of her late time as dame in her dwelling, whereby I may picture her there. _March_ 1890. [Picture: Sketch of woman cover in sheet lying on couch] MIDDLE-AGE ENTHUSIASMS To M. H. WE passed where flag and flower Signalled a jocund throng; We said: “Go to, the hour Is apt!”—and joined the song; And, kindling, laughed at life and care, Although we knew no laugh lay there. We walked where shy birds stood Watching us, wonder-dumb; Their friendship met our mood; We cried: “We’ll often come: We’ll come morn, noon, eve, everywhen!” —We doubted we should come again. We joyed to see strange sheens Leap from quaint leaves in shade; A secret light of greens They’d for their pleasure made. We said: “We’ll set such sorts as these!” —We knew with night the wish would cease. “So sweet the place,” we said, “Its tacit tales so dear, Our thoughts, when breath has sped, Will meet and mingle here!” . . . “Words!” mused we. “Passed the mortal door, Our thoughts will reach this nook no more.” IN A WOOD See “THE WOODLANDERS” PALE beech and pine-tree blue, Set in one clay, Bough to bough cannot you Bide out your day? When the rains skim and skip, Why mar sweet comradeship, Blighting with poison-drip Neighbourly spray? Heart-halt and spirit-lame, City-opprest, Unto this wood I came As to a nest; Dreaming that sylvan peace Offered the harrowed ease— Nature a soft release From men’s unrest. But, having entered in, Great growths and small Show them to men akin— Combatants all! Sycamore shoulders oak, Bines the slim sapling yoke, Ivy-spun halters choke Elms stout and tall.