A VOICE in the scented night,—
A step where the rose-trees blow,—
O Love, and O Love's delight!

Cold star at the blue vault's height,
What is it that shakes you so?
A voice in the scented night!

She comes in her beauty bright,—
She comes in her young love's glow,—
O Love, and O Love's delight!

She bends from her casement white,
And she hears it, hushed and low,
A voice in the scented night.

And he climbs by that stairway slight,—
Her passionate R OMEO :—
O Love, and O Love's delight!

For it stirs us still in spite

Our Andy's gone to battle now
'Gainst Drought, the red marauder:
Our Andy's gone with cattle now
Across the Queensland border.

He's left us in dejection now;
Our hearts with him are roving.
It's dull on this selection now,
Since Andy went a-droving.

Who now shall wear the cheerful face
In times when things are slackest?
And who shall whistle round the place
When Fortune frowns her blackest?

O who shall cheek the squatter now
When he comes round us snarling?
His tongue is growing hotter now
Since Andy crossed the Darling.

Waste , waste, waste,—but the voice in the waste of the sea!
The dread, sheer height of an empty night! And the heart—Ah, the heart in me!
I know where the deep is wider, I know of a gloom more dread—
O the waste and the night of the heart, when the star from the heart has fled!

mr u will not be missed
who as an anthologist
sold the many on the few
not excluding mr u

Woe is me to tell it thee,
Winter winds in Arcady!
Scattered is thy flock and fled
From the glades where once it fed,
And the snow lies drifted white
In the bower of our delight,
Where the beech threw gracious shade
On the cheek of boy and maid;
And the bitter blasts make roar
Through the fleshless sycamore.

White enchantment holds the spring,
Where thou once wert wont to sing,
And the cold hath cut to death
Reeds melodious of thy breath.
He, the rival of thy lyre,
Nightingale with note of fire,
Sings no more; but far away,

How many Aprils have I roamed beside thee
O'er the brown hills where now alone I tread?
And though far realms of wonder now divide thee
From our dim world, I cannot deem thee dead.

I held thee in my arms while life was failing,—
Close in my arms and watched thy fluttering breath,
Till the red sunset in the west was paling
And twilight veiled the awful calm of death.

In that white calm I saw then and forever
The grandeur of thy spirit and its power;
E'en as its mortal vestment seemed to sever,
I saw the immortal bursting into flower.

Rutted by wheels and scarred by hoofs
And by rude footsteps trod,
The old road winds through glimmering woods
Unto the house of God.

How many feet, assembling here
From each diverse abode,
Led by how many different aims,
Have walked this shadowy road!

How many sounds of woe and mirth
Have thrilled these green woods dim—
The funeral's slow and solemn tramp,
The wedding's joyous hymn.

Full oft, amid the gloom and glow
Through which the highway bends,
I watch the meeting streams of life,
Whose mingled current tends

When last I heard your nimble fingers play
Upon your lute, nothing so sweet as they
Seemed: all my soul fled ravished to my ear
That sweetly animating sound to hear.
My ravished heart with play kept equal time,
Fell down with you, with you did Ela climb,
Grew sad or lighter, as the tunes you played,
And with your lute a perfect measure made:
If all, so much as I, your music love,
The whole world would at your devotion move;
And at your speaking lute's surpassing charms
Embrace a lasting peace, and fling by arms.

At dawn from the Unseen Speaker Came the glad news to mine ear;
“The time it of Shah Shejáa is! Drink, then, and make good cheer!”

Past, past are the days when the people Of vision withdrew apart,
Mouths full of a thousand sayings And silent the lips for fear.

To the sound of the harp we will utter Those words, for the hiding whereof
The breast, like a boiling cauldron, Was ever in ferment sheer.

The wine, that in secret drunken, For fear of the Censor, was,
We'll quaff to the topers' clamour, In face of the comrades dear.

The sky is hid in a snowy shroud,
And the road in the woods is white,
But the dear God watches above the cloud
In the centre of light.

In the woods is the hush of the snowflakes' fall,
And the creak of a lumberman's sleigh,
But in Heaven the choirs of the Master of all
Make praise alway.

Up there is the throne of the Triune God
And the worshipping multitudes,
And here is the long white winter road
And the silent woods.