Toil on, sweet hands; once more I see the child; The little child, that was myself, appears, And all the old-time beauties, undefined, Shine back to me across the opening years, Quick griefs, that made the tender bosom wild, Short blinding gusts, that died in passionate tears, Sweet life, with all its change, that now so happy seems, With all its child-heart glories, and untutored dreams. Play on into the golden sunshine so, Sweeter than all great artists' labouring: I too was like you once, an age ago: God keep you, dimpled fingers, for you bring Quiet gliding ghosts to me of joy and woe, No certain things at all that thrill or sting, But only sounds and scents and savours of things bright, No joy or aching pain; but only dim delight. AN ATHENIAN REVERIE. How the returning days, one after one, Come ever in their rhythmic round, unchanged, Yet from each loopèd robe for every man Some new thing falls. Happy is he Who fronts them without fear, and like the gods Looks out unanxiously on each day's gift With calmly curious eye. How many things Even in a little space, both good and ill, Have fallen on me, and yet in all of them The keen experience or the smooth remembrance Hath found some sweet. It scarcely seems a month Since we saw Crete; so swiftly sped the days, Borne onward with how many changing scenes, Filled with how many crowding memories. Not soon shall I forget them, the stout ship, All the tense labour with the windy sea, The cloud-wrapped heights of Crete, beheld far off, And white Cytæon with its stormy pier, The fruitful valleys, the wild mountain road, And those long days of ever-vigilant toil, Scarcely with sleepless craft and unmoved front Escaping robbers, that quiet restful eve At rich Gortyna, where we lay and watched The dripping foliage, and the darkening fields, And over all huge-browed above the night Ida's great summit with it's fiery crown; And then once more the stormy treacherous sea, The noisy ship, the seamen's vehement cries, That battled with the whistling wind, the feet Reeling upon the swaying deck, and eyes Strained anxiously toward land; ah, with what joy At last the busy pier at Nauplia, Rest and firm shelter for our racking brains: Most sweet of all, most dear to memory That journey with Euktemon through the hills By fair Cleonæ and the lofty pass; Then Corinth with its riotous jollity, Remembered like a reeling dream; and here Good Theron's wedding, and this festal day; And I, chief helper in its various rites, Not least, commissioned through these wakeful hours To dream before the quiet thalamos, Unsleeping, like some full-grown bearded Eros, The guardian of love's sweetest mysteries. To-morrow I shall hear again the din