They cannot wholly pass away,
How far soe'er above;
Nor we, the lingerers, wholly stay
Apart from those we love:
For spirits in eternity,
As shadows in the sun,
Reach backward into Time, as we,
Like lifted clouds, reach on.

They are so moving in
their sadness, gentleness and longing —
all the sad old men who once
were all the sad young men.

How can you not be moved
by their loneliness and desolation —
their faint dreams and hopes
of love, a new love, a friendship?

The poorest and the ugliest still long
for just a passing warmth, a touch,
the clasp of hands, the feel, the joy
of another's nakedness and strength and grace
enriching all that poverty and emptiness and death.

Friendship is only for the young.

These lovely groves of fountain-trees that shake
A burning spray against autumnal cool
Descend again in molten drops to make
The rutted path a river and a pool.

They rise in silence, fall in quietude,
Lie still as looking-glass to every sense
Save where their lion-colour in the wood
Roars to miraculous heat and turbulence.

THE DAYS OF OUR YOUTH

These are the days of our youth, our days of glory and honour.
 Pleasure begotten of strength is ours, the sword in our hand.
Wisdom bends to our will, we lead captivity captive,
 Kings of our lives and love, receiving gifts from men.

Why do I speak of wisdom? The prize is not for the wisest.
 Reason, the dull ox, ploughs a soil which no joy shall reap.
Folly is fleeter far 'neath the heel of the fearless rider,
 Folly the bare-backed steed we bestride, the steed of the plains.

T HERE'S more in words than I can teach:
Yet listen, child! — I would not preach;
But only give some plain directions
To guide your speech and your affections.
Say not you love a roasted fowl,
But you may love a screaming owl,
And, if you can, the unwieldy toad
That crawls from his secure abode
Within the mossy garden wall
When evening dews begin to fall.
Oh! mark the beauty of his eye:
What wonders in that circle lie!
So clear, so bright, our fathers said
He wears a jewel in his head!
And when, upon some showery day,

There was a young lady of station,
"I love man,' was her sole exclamation;
But when men cried: "You flatter,'
She replied: "Oh! no matter,
Isle of Man is the true explanation!'

There was a road ran past our house
Too lovely to explore.
I asked my mother once — she said
That if you followed where it led
It brought you to the milk-man's door.
(That's why I have not travelled more.)

There was a knight, an he had a daughter,
An he wad wed her, wi muckle sin;
Sae he has biggit a bonnie bower, love,
An a' to keep his fair daughter in.

But she hadna been in the bonnie bower, love,
And no twa hours but barely ane,
Till up started Tammas, her ain true lover,
And O sae fain as he wald been in.

" For a' sae weel as I like ye, Tammas,
An for a' sae weel as I like the gin,
I wadna for ten thousand pounds, love,
Na no this night wad I let thee in.

" But yonder is a bonnie greenwud,

There is no vacant chair. The loving meet,
— A group unbroken — smitten, who knows how?
One sitteth silent only, in his usual seat;
— We gave him once that freedom. Why not now?

Perhaps he is too weary, and needs rest;
— He needed it so often, nor could we
Bestow. God gave it, knowing how to do so best.
— Which of us would disturb him? Let him be.

There is no vacant chair. If he will take
— The mood to listen mutely, be it done.
By his least mood we crossed, for which the heart must ache,

There is many a love in the land, my love,
—But never a love like this is;
Then kill me dead with your love, my love,
—And cover me up with kisses.

So kill me dead and cover me deep
—Where never a soul discovers;
Deep in your heart to sleep, to sleep,
—In the darlingest tomb of lovers.