Here at right of the entrance this bronze head,
Human, superhuman, a bird's round eye,
Everything else withered and mummy-dead.
What great tomb-haunter sweeps the distant sky
(Something may linger there though all else die;)
And finds there nothing to make its terror less
Hysterica passio of its own emptiness?

No dark tomb-haunter once; her form all full
As though with magnanimity of light,
Yet a most gentle woman; who can tell
Which of her forms has shown her substance right?
Or maybe substance can be composite,

I. — The H INDU A SCETIC .

H ERE as I sit by the Jumna bank,
Watching the flow of the sacred stream,
Pass me the legions, rank on rank,
And the cannon roar, and the bayonets gleam.

Is it a god or a king that comes?
Both are evil, and both are strong;
With women and worshipping, dancing and drums,
Carry your gods and your kings along.

Fanciful shapes of a plastic earth,

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,
The darling of our crew,
No more he'll hear the tempest howling,
For death has broached him to.
His form was of the manliest beauty,
His heart was kind and soft,
Faithful below he did his duty,
But now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed,
His virtues were so rare,
His friends were many, and true-hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair:
And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,
Ah many's the time and oft!
But mirth is turned to melancholy,
For Tom is gone aloft.

1. Heralds of Christ, who bear the King's commands,
2. Through desert ways, dark fen, and deep morass,
Immortal tidings in your mortal hands, Pass
Through jungles, sluggish seas, and mountain pass, Build
on and carry swift the news ye bring:
ye the road, and falter not, nor stay;
Make straight, make straight the highway of the King.
Prepare across the earth the King's highway.

3. Where once the crooked trail in darkness wound
Let marching feet and joyous song resound,
Where burn the funeral pyres, and censers swing,

Her talk was all of woodland things,
— Of little lives that pass
Away in one green afternoon,
— Deep in the haunted grass;

For she had come from fairyland,
— The morning of a day
When the world that still was April
— Was turning into May.

Green leaves and silence and two eyes
— 'Twas so she seemed to me,
A silver shadow of the woods,
— Whisper and mystery.

I looked into her woodland eyes,
— And all my heart was hers,
And then I led her by the hand
— Home up my marble stairs;

Seeing an
image of cherry blossoms
ahead of me
I crossed one mountain after another —
white clouds on the peaks.

Her sight is short, she comes quite near;
A foot to me's a mile to her;
And she is known as Jenny Wren,
The smallest bird in England. When
I heard that little bird at first,
Methought her frame would surely burst
With earnest song. Oft had I seen
Her running under leaves so green,
Or in the grass when fresh and wet,
As though her wings she would forget.
And, seeing this, I said to her —
" My pretty runner, you prefer
To be a thing to run unheard
Through leaves and grass, and not a bird! "
'Twas then she burst, to prove me wrong,

1
Her mother died when she was young,
Which gave her cause to make great moan;
Her father married the worst woman
That ever lived in Christendom.
2

She served her with foot and hand,
In everything that she could dee,
Till once, in an unlucky time,
She threw her in ower Craigy's sea.
3

Says, "Lie you there, dove Isabel,
And all my sorrows lie with thee;
Till Kemp Owyne come ower the sea,
And borrow you with kisses three,
Let all the world do what they will,
O borrowed shall you never be!'
4

( FOR A PICTURE )

Her lute hangs shadowed in the apple-tree,
While flashing fingers weave the sweet-strung spell
Between its chords; and as the wild notes swell,
The sea-bird for those branches leaves the sea.
But to what sound her listening ear stoops she?
What netherworld gulf-whispers doth she hear,
In answering echoes from what planisphere,
Along the wind, along the estuary?

Her love is true I know,
Much more true
Than angel's love;
For angels love in heaven
Where a thousand harps
Are playing.

She loves in a tenement
Where the only music
She hears
Is the cry of street car brakes
And the toot of automobile horns
And the drip of a kitchen spigot
All day.
Her love is true I know.