The thin-edged breezes blew me What I, though cobwebbed, crazed, Was never to forget, My friend, Was never to forget!

THE BEAUTY

O do not praise my beauty more, In such word-wild degree, And say I am one all eyes adore; For these things hara.s.s me!

But do for ever softly say: "From now unto the end Come weal, come wanzing, come what may, Dear, I will be your friend."

I hate my beauty in the gla.s.s: My beauty is not I: I wear it: none cares whether, alas, Its wearer live or die!

The inner I O care for, then, Yea, me and what I am, And shall be at the gray hour when My cheek begins to clam.

Note.--"The Regent Street beauty, Miss Verrey, the Swiss confectioner's daughter, whose personal attractions have been so mischievously exaggerated, died of fever on Monday evening, brought on by the annoyance she had been for some time subject to."--London paper, October 1828.

THE COLLECTOR CLEANS HIS PICTURE

Fili hominis, ecce ego tollo a te desiderabile oculorum tuorom in plaga.--EZECH. xxiv. 16.

How I remember cleaning that strange picture!

I had been deep in duty for my sick neighbour - His besides my own--over several Sundays, Often, too, in the week; so with parish pressures, Baptisms, burials, doctorings, conjugal counsel - All the whatnots asked of a rural parson - Faith, I was well-nigh broken, should have been fully Saving for one small secret relaxation, One that in mounting manhood had grown my hobby.

This was to delve at whiles for easel-lumber, Stowed in the backmost slums of a soon-reached city, Merely on chance to uncloak some worthy canvas, Panel, or plaque, blacked blind by uncouth adventure, Yet under all concealing a precious art-feat.

Such I had found not yet. My latest capture Came from the rooms of a trader in ancient house-gear Who had no scent of beauty or soul for brushcraft.

Only a t.i.ttle cost it--murked with grime-films, Gatherings of slow years, thick-varnished over, Never a feature manifest of man's painting.

So, one Sat.u.r.day, time ticking hard on midnight Ere an hour subserved, I set me upon it.

Long with coiled-up sleeves I cleaned and yet cleaned, Till a first fresh spot, a high light, looked forth, Then another, like fair flesh, and another; Then a curve, a nostril, and next a finger, Tapering, shapely, significantly pointing slantwise.

"Flemish?" I said. "Nay, Spanish . . . But, nay, Italian!"

- Then meseemed it the guise of the ranker Venus, Named of some Astarte, of some Cotytto.

Down I knelt before it and kissed the panel, Drunk with the lure of love's inhibited dreamings.

Till the dawn I rubbed, when there gazed up at me A hag, that had slowly emerged from under my hands there, Pointing the slanted finger towards a bosom Eaten away of a rot from the l.u.s.ts of a lifetime . . .

- I could have ended myself in heart-shook horror.

Stunned I sat till roused by a clear-voiced bell-chime, Fresh and sweet as the dew-fleece under my luthern.

It was the matin service calling to me From the adjacent steeple.

THE WOOD FIRE (A FRAGMENT)

"This is a brightsome blaze you've lit good friend, to-night!"

"--Aye, it has been the bleakest spring I have felt for years, And nought compares with cloven logs to keep alight: I buy them bargain-cheap of the executioners, As I dwell near; and they wanted the crosses out of sight By Pa.s.sover, not to affront the eyes of visitors.

"Yes, they're from the crucifixions last week-ending At Kranion. We can sometimes use the poles again, But they get split by the nails, and 'tis quicker work than mending To knock together new; though the uprights now and then Serve twice when they're let stand. But if a feast's impending, As lately, you've to tidy up for the corners' ken.

"Though only three were impaled, you may know it didn't pa.s.s off So quietly as was wont? That Galilee carpenter's son Who boasted he was king, incensed the rabble to scoff: I heard the noise from my garden. This piece is the one he was on .

Yes, it blazes up well if lit with a few dry chips and shroff; And it's worthless for much else, what with cuts and stains thereon."

SAYING GOOD-BYE (SONG)

We are always saying "Good-bye, good-bye!"

In work, in playing, In gloom, in gaying: At many a stage Of pilgrimage From youth to age We say, "Good-bye, Good-bye!"

We are undiscerning Which go to sigh, Which will be yearning For soon returning; And which no more Will dark our door, Or tread our sh.o.r.e, But go to die, To die.

Some come from roaming With joy again; Some, who come homing By stealth at gloaming, Had better have stopped Till death, and dropped By strange hands propped, Than come so fain, So fain.

So, with this saying, "Good-bye, good-bye,"

We speed their waying Without betraying Our grief, our fear No more to hear From them, close, clear, Again: "Good-bye, Good-bye!"

ON THE TUNE CALLED THE OLD-HUNDRED-AND-FOURTH

We never sang together Ravenscroft's terse old tune On Sundays or on weekdays, In sharp or summer weather, At night-time or at noon.

Why did we never sing it, Why never so incline On Sundays or on weekdays, Even when soft wafts would wing it From your far floor to mine?

Shall we that tune, then, never Stand voicing side by side On Sundays or on weekdays? . . .

Or shall we, when for ever In Sheol we abide,

Sing it in desolation, As we might long have done On Sundays or on weekdays With love and exultation Before our sands had run?

THE OPPORTUNITY (FOR H. P.)

Forty springs back, I recall, We met at this phase of the Maytime: We might have clung close through all, But we parted when died that daytime.

We parted with smallest regret; Perhaps should have cared but slightly, Just then, if we never had met: Strange, strange that we lived so lightly!