Peace is declared, an' I return
To 'Ackneystadt, but not the same;
Things 'ave transpired which made me learn
The size and meanin' of the game.
I did no more than others did,
I don't know where the change began.
I started as a average kid,
I finished as a thinkin' man.

If England was what England seems,

Peace, be at peace, O thou my heaviness,
Thou calledst for the evening, lo! 'tis here,
The City wears a somber atmosphere
That brings repose to some, to some distress.
Now while the heedless throng make haste to press
Where pleasure drives them, ruthless charioteer,
To pluck the fruits of sick remorse and fear,
Come thou with me, and leave their fretfulness.
See how they hang from heaven's high balconies,
The old lost years in faded garments dressed,
And see Regret with faintly smiling mouth;
And while the dying sun sinks in the west,

1

The pawky auld carle came o'er the lea,
Wi' many good e'ens and days to me,
Saying: "Goodwife, for your courtesie,
Will you lodge a silly poor man?'
The night was cauld, the carle was wat;
And down ayont the ingle he sat;
My daughter's shoulders he 'gan to clap,
And cadgily ranted and sang.
2

"O wow!' quo' he, "were I as free
As first when I saw this countrie,
How blythe and merry wad I be!
And I wad never think lang.'
He grew canty, and she grew fain,
But little did her auld minny ken

The patience of Job is a story old,
We marvel at this good man.
Yet infinitely greater God's patience is
Toward those who reject His plan.
He yearns and He pleads and He waits to save
The many — not just the few —
But some day His patience will have expired —
Say, will it hold out for you?

God's mercy and love are wonderful,
So tender that heart divine.
'Tis not in His plan that a single soul
In hell should be left to pine.
This human family He yearns to save;
He's calling, my friend, to you.

Patience, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray,
But bid for, Patience is! Patience who asks
Wants war, wants wounds; weary his times, his tasks;
To do without, take tosses, and obey.
Rare patience roots in these, and, these away,
Nowhere. Natural heart's ivy, Patience masks
Our ruins of wrecked past purpose.
Purple eyes and seas of liquid leaves all day.

We hear our hearts grate on themselves: it kills
To bruise them dearer. Yet the rebellious wills
Of us we do bid God bend to him even so.
And where is he who more and more distills

LXXV

[Lover:] Patience for my device,
Impatience for your part.
Of contraries the guise
Must needs be overthwart.
Patience, for I am true;
The contrary for you.

[Lady:] Patience, a good cause why!
Yours hath no cause at all.
Trust me, that stands awry
Perchance may sometime fall.
" Patience" then say, and sup
A taste of Patience' cup.

[Lover:] Patience! No force for that,
Yet brush your gown again.
Patience! Spurn not thereat
Lest folks perceive your pain.
Patience at my pleasure

Patience ! coy songsters of the Delphic wood,
The brightest sun tempts forth the viper brood;
And, of all insects buds and blooms enclose,
The one that stinks the most infests the rose.

The Past walks here, noiseless, unasked, alone;
Knockers are silent, and beside each stone
Grass peers, unharmed by lagging steps and slow
That with the dark and dawn pass to and fro.
The Past walks here, unseen forevermore,
Save by some heart who, in her half-closed door,
Looks forth and hears the great pulse beat afar, —
The hum and thrill and all the sounds that are,
And listening remembers, half in fear,
As a forgotten tune reichoes near,
Or from some lilac bush a breath blows sweet
Through the unanswering dusk, the voiceless street, —

The Past it is fraught with many a feeling
Of pleasure, of sadness, of joy, and of pain;
And 'tis sweet of an eve when dewdrops are falling,
To reflect on the days that can ne'er come again.

The Past, it is pleasant! Ah, memory recalls
The period of childhood, when joyous and free,
With innocence crowned, in purity robed,
We revelled in gladness and sported in glee.

The Past, it is saddening! full many a loved one
That joined in each pleasure, partook of each pain,
Have passed on before, to the spirit land flown,

Past seven o'clock: time to be gone;
Twelfth-night's over and dawn shivering up:
A hasty cut of the loaf, a steaming cup,
Down to the door, and there is Coachman John.

Ruddy of cheek is John and bright of eye;
But John it appears has none of your grins and winks;
Civil enough, but short: perhaps he thinks:
Words come once in a mile, and always dry.

Has he a mind or not? I wonder; but soon
We turn through a leafless wood, and there to the right,
Like a sun bewitched in alien realms of night,
Mellow and yellow and rounded hangs the moon.