There is a loneliness on city streets
—More desolate than crag or wind-swept hill;
So near to others, still no welcome greets
—The ear with understanding and good will.
Sometimes I think that each one strives to hide,
—Masklike, the secret longings of the heart,
And yet, their stolid countenances confide
—A message that the lips dare not impart.

The brain grows dizzy while the eye looks on
—This pageant that forever marches by,
Till human folk seem but the cast-off spawn
—Of earth, with none to heed their inmost cry,

( The Little Red Rogue—The Fox )
Och, Modereen Rue, you little red rover,
By the glint of the moon you stole out of your cover,
And now there is never an egg to be got
Nor a handsome fat chicken to put in the pot.
Och, Modereen Rue!
With your nose to the earth and your ear on the listen
You slunk through the stubble with first drops a-glisten
With my lovely fat drake in your teeth as you went,
That your red roguish children should breakfast content.
Och, Modereen Rue!

The wind sprang up at four o'clock
The wind sprang up and broke the bells
Swinging between life and death
Here, in death's dream kingdom
The waking echo of confusing strife
Is it a dream or something else
When the surface of the blackened river
Is a face that sweats with tears?
I saw across the blackened river
The camp fire shake with alien spears.
Here, across death's other river
The Tartar horsemen shake their spears.

Strike, strike, brave drum, thy startling note,
Strain, bugle, strain thy brazen throat;
Up, warriors, up! your country calls,
Up, thickly man your castle walls!
Let floods of flame dark night illume,
Dread foemen lurk amid the gloom.

With stealthy tread and pent-up breath,
The close-wedged ranks stride o'er the heath,
The rock they climb, the walls they scale,
Shots rattle thick and fleet as hail:
To arms! To arms! hoarse voices call,
In vain;—the assailants man the wall.

A thousand heroes start from sleep,

In many a form I see thee oft,
O Mary, beauteously portrayed;
But never with such semblance soft
As to my soul thou cam'st arrayed.
I only know, the world's annoy,
Since then, like transient dream doth fade,
And an eternal heaven of joy
My spirit hath its dwelling made.

Under his feet a sloping bank,
Where velvet mosses lie;
Beside him, an old hedge-side oak;
Over his head the sky.
Around him honest villagers,
A humble, earnest band;
To whom he spoke of Christ, and held
A Bible in his hand.

His face was bright with holy hope,
The pilgrim's staff and stay;
His form erect, his forehead high,
His long smooth hair was grey.
His words as gentle as the rain
Upon the summer flower,
When sleep the winds, and silence fills
The honeysuckled bower.

He spoke of Adam's helpless race,

I go in a dream to the house of Hsieh—
Through a zigzag porch with arching rails
To a court where the spring moon lights for ever
Phantom flowers and a single figure.

Unfold thy pinions, drooping to the sun,
Just plunged behind the round-browed mountain, deep
Crowned with the snows of hawthorn, avalanched
All down its sloping shoulder with the bloom
Of orchards, blushing to the ardent South,
And to the evening oriflamme of rose
That arches the blue concave of the sky.

O rosy Star, thy trembling glory part
From the great sunset splendour that its tides
Sends rushing in swift billows to the east,
And on their manes of fire outswell thy sails
Of light-spun gold; and as the glory dies,

We believed in highdays then,
And could glimpse at night
On Christmas Eve
Imminent oncomings of radiant revel—
Doings of delight:—
Now we have no such sight.

We had eyes for phantoms then,
And at bridge or stile
On Christmas Eve
Clear beheld those countless ones who had crossed it
Cross again in file:—
Such has ceased longwhile!

We liked divination then,
And, as they homeward wound
On Christmas Eve,
We could read men's dreams within them spinning
Even as wheels spin round:—
Now we are blinker-bound.

To be redeem'd the world's Redeemer brought,
Two selye turtle-doves, for ransome payes;
Oh! ware with empyres worthy to be bought,
This easye rate doth sounde, not drowne Thy praise!
For sith no price can to Thy worth amounte,
A dove, yea love, dew price Thou dost accounte.

Old Simeon cheap penyworth and sweete
Obteyn'd, when Thee in armes he did embrace;
His weeping eyes Thy smyling lookes did meete,
Thy love his hart, Thy kisses blissd his face:
O eyes! O hart! meane sightes and loves avoyde,
'Base not your selves, your best you have enjoy'd!