I stood and watched him out of sight; To-day I reach around the door And set a bowl upon the step; My heart is what it was before, But it is winter with your love; I scatter crumbs upon the sill, And close the window,--and the birds May take or leave them, as they will. _Inland_ People that build their houses inland, People that buy a plot of ground Shaped like a house, and build a house there, Far from the sea-board, far from the sound Of water sucking the hollow ledges, Tons of water striking the shore,-- What do they long for, as I long for One salt smell of the sea once more? People the waves have not awakened, Spanking the boats at the harbour’s head, What do they long for, as I long for,-- Starting up in my inland bed, Beating the narrow walls, and finding Neither a window nor a door, Screaming to God for death by drowning,-- One salt taste of the sea once more? _To a Poet that Died Young_ Minstrel, what have you to do With this man that, after you, Sharing not your happy fate, Sat as England’s Laureate? Vainly, in these iron days, Strives the poet in your praise, Minstrel, by whose singing side Beauty walked, until you died. Still, though none should hark again, Drones the blue-fly in the pane, Thickly crusts the blackest moss, Blows the rose its musk across, Floats the boat that is forgot None the less to Camelot. Many a bard’s untimely death Lends unto his verses breath; Here’s a song was never sung: Growing old is dying young. Minstrel, what is this to you: That a man you never knew, When your grave was far and green, Sat and gossipped with a queen? Thalia knows how rare a thing Is it, to grow old and sing; When the brown and tepid tide Closes in on every side. Who shall say if Shelley’s gold Had withstood it to grow old? _Wraith_ “Thin Rain, whom are you haunting, That you haunt my door?” --Surely it is not I she’s wanting; Someone living here before-- “Nobody’s in the house but me: You may come in if you like and see.” Thin as thread, with exquisite fingers,-- Have you seen her, any of you?-- Grey shawl, and leaning on the wind, And the garden showing through? Glimmering eyes,--and silent, mostly, Sort of a whisper, sort of a purr, Asking something, asking it over, If you get a sound from her.-- Ever see her, any of you?-- Strangest thing I’ve ever known,-- Every night since I moved in, And I came to be alone. “Thin Rain, hush with your knocking! You may not come in! This is I that you hear rocking; Nobody’s with me, nor has been!” Curious, how she tried the window,-- Odd, the way she tries the door,-- _Wonder just what sort of people Could have had this house before...._ _Ebb_