AS THO' again—yea, even once again,
We should rewelcome to our stewardship
The rider with the loose-flung bridle-rein
And chance-plucked twig for whip,

The down-turned hat-brim, and the eyes beneath
Alert, devouring—and the imperious hand
Ordaining matters swiftly to bequeath
Perfect the work he planned.

A violet dusk hangs softly o'er the Bay,
And golden evening, amorous of the day,
Watches the purple waves that sing afar
Where glows the radiance of an early star
That bashful-eyed, gleams fitfully in the sky.
A Springtime blossom-scent is in the breeze,
While towering, sentinel-like, the cypress trees
Loom loftily on the hills. One sunset wing
Floats far above, and amber shadows fling
Their rich tints on the sea's edge, glistening white.
Dusk gathers fast,—and with the blue day's flight
There falls the speechless wonder of the night.

In A quiet water'd land, a land of roses,
Stands Saint Kieran's city fair:
And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations
Slumber there.

There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblest
Of the clan of Conn,
Each below his stone with name in branching Ogham
And the sacred knot thereon.

There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara,
There the sons of Cairbré sleep—
Battle-banners of the Gael, that in Kieran's plain of crosses
Now their final hosting keep.

And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia,

Good-by, sweetheart, our days of bliss,
Sealed by love's pure and sacred kiss,
Are ended in tears;
We part—the dream is o'er,
Good-by, sweetheart.

I may not meet thee of old,
But oh, how can we live apart,
God knoweth best, God help us both
To live and say
Good-by, sweetheart.

Bone to his bone, grain to his grain of dust:
A numberless reunion shall make whole
Each blessed body for its blessed soul,
Refashioning the aspects of the just.
Each saint who died must live afresh, and must
Ascend resplendent in the aureole
Of his own proper glory to his goal,
As seeds their proper bodies all upthrust.
Each with his own not with another's grace,
Each with his own not with another's heart,
Each with his own not with another's face,
Each dove-like soul mounts to his proper place:—
O faces unforgotten! if to part

I ought to be joyful, the jest and the song
And the light tones of music resound through the throng;
But its cadence falls dully and dead on my ear,
And the laughter I mimic is quenched in a tear.

For here is no longer, to bid me rejoice,
The light of thy smile, or the tone of thy voice,
And, gay though the crowd that's around me may be,
I am alone, when I'm parted from thee.

Alone, said I, dearest? O, never we part,—
For ever, for ever, thou'rt here in my heart:
Sleeping or waking, where'er I may be,

Alone, I live alone
And sore I sighe for one.

No wondre thow I murning make,
For grevous' sighes that mine harte dothe take,
And all is for my lady sake.
Alone, I live alone.

She that is causer of my wo,
I mervel that she will do so,
Sithe I love hir and no mo.
Alone, I live alone.

Thus am I brought into lovers daunce;
I wot never how to flee the chaunce;
Wherefore I live in great penaunce.
Alone, I live alone.

My minde is so it is content
With hir daily to be present,
And yet my servis is there misse-spent.

He looked into the tiger's cage; and saw,
In a far dusky corner, glaring eyes
Of burning emerald. Shot with instant awe,
His heart went cold and empty—then was filled
With the hot darkness of vast jungle-night …
In which, somehow, he wandered, while wild cries
Of peacocks shrieking on the unseen boughs
Sang through his curdling blood … (Somehow, he knew
That they were peacocks, though he'd never been
Outside Northumberland; and had only heard
One day the screel of that outlandish bird
Nigh Chillingham—a cold shriek that had thrilled

We ramble on, the stream and I,
Still singing, still companionless;
We run to find, beneath the sky,
Some arid spot, some life to bless:
The brook is dreaming of the sea;
But I, fond spirit, dream of thee.

The brook's bright waters flow and flow;
All lush and green his track appears,
And it is given me to know
Some choral of the chanting spheres:
Our lives are tuneful as the birds,
With rippled song and gentle words.

And if, sometimes, we lurk apart
In secret grot or covert dale,
To bide a space and gather heart,

The arching skies, the ancient wind
Soughing through immemorial trees;
The sense of all that lurks behind
The year's now tattered masonries,
Where the blithe birds once built their home
High in the air-sweet, leafy dome.

Then, the lone figure of a girl
Clear-limned against the buttressed hills;
Slim, beautiful, a tiny pearl
Set round with ruby light that fills
The all-illumined spaces where
No dark may creep nor shadow dare.

Not for an earldom would I break
The silence of that dreaming maid;
I could not play her soul awake