The railway bore him through An earthen cutting out from a city: There was no scope for view, Though the frail light shed by a slim young moon Fell like a friendly tune.

Fell like a liquid ditty, And the blank lack of any charm Of landscape did no harm.

The bald steep cutting, rigid, rough, And moon-lit, was enough For poetry of place: its weathered face Formed a convenient sheet whereon The visions of his mind were drawn.

THE TWO WIVES (SMOKER'S CLUB-STORY)

I waited at home all the while they were boating together - My wife and my near neighbour's wife: Till there entered a woman I loved more than life, And we sat and sat on, and beheld the uprising dark weather, With a sense that some mischief was rife.

Tidings came that the boat had capsized, and that one of the ladies Was drowned--which of them was unknown: And I marvelled--my friend's wife?--or was it my own Who had gone in such wise to the land where the sun as the shade is?

--We learnt it was HIS had so gone.

Then I cried in unrest: "He is free! But no good is releasing To him as it would be to me!"

"--But it is," said the woman I loved, quietly.

"How?" I asked her. "--Because he has long loved me too without ceasing, And it's just the same thing, don't you see."

"I KNEW A LADY"

(CLUB SONG)

I knew a lady when the days Grew long, and evenings goldened; But I was not emboldened By her prompt eyes and winning ways.

And when old Winter nipt the haws, "Another's wife I'll be, And then you'll care for me,"

She said, "and think how sweet I was!"

And soon she shone as another's wife: As such I often met her, And sighed, "How I regret her!

My folly cuts me like a knife!"

And then, to-day, her husband came, And moaned, "Why did you flout her?

Well could I do without her!

For both our burdens you are to blame!"

A HOUSE WITH A HISTORY

There is a house in a city street Some past ones made their own; Its floors were criss-crossed by their feet, And their babblings beat From ceiling to white hearth-stone.

And who are peopling its parlours now?

Who talk across its floor?

Mere freshlings are they, blank of brow, Who read not how Its prime had pa.s.sed before

Their raw equipments, scenes, and says Afflicted its memoried face, That had seen every larger phase Of human ways Before these filled the place.

To them that house's tale is theirs, No former voices call Aloud therein. Its aspect bears Their joys and cares Alone, from wall to wall.

A PROCESSION OF DEAD DAYS

I see the ghost of a perished day; I know his face, and the feel of his dawn: 'Twas he who took me far away To a spot strange and gray: Look at me, Day, and then pa.s.s on, But come again: yes, come anon!

Enters another into view; His features are not cold or white, But rosy as a vein seen through: Too soon he smiles adieu.

Adieu, O ghost-day of delight; But come and grace my dying sight.

Enters the day that brought the kiss: He brought it in his foggy hand To where the mumbling river is, And the high clematis; It lent new colour to the land, And all the boy within me manned.

Ah, this one. Yes, I know his name, He is the day that wrought a shine Even on a precinct common and tame, As 'twere of purposed aim.

He shows him as a rainbow sign Of promise made to me and mine.

The next stands forth in his morning clothes, And yet, despite their misty blue, They mark no sombre custom-growths That joyous living loathes, But a meteor act, that left in its queue A train of sparks my lifetime through.

I almost tremble at his nod - This next in train--who looks at me As I were slave, and he were G.o.d Wielding an iron rod.

I close my eyes; yet still is he In front there, looking mastery.

In the similitude of a nurse The phantom of the next one comes: I did not know what better or worse Chancings might bless or curse When his original glossed the thrums Of ivy, bringing that which numbs.

Yes; trees were turning in their sleep Upon their windy pillows of gray When he stole in. Silent his creep On the gra.s.sed eastern steep . . .

I shall not soon forget that day, And what his third hour took away!

HE FOLLOWS HIMSELF

In a heavy time I dogged myself Along a louring way, Till my leading self to my following self Said: "Why do you hang on me So hara.s.singly?"

"I have watched you, Heart of mine," I cried, "So often going astray And leaving me, that I have pursued, Feeling such truancy Ought not to be."

He said no more, and I dogged him on From noon to the dun of day By prowling paths, until anew He begged: "Please turn and flee! - What do you see?"

"Methinks I see a man," said I, "Dimming his hours to gray.

I will not leave him while I know Part of myself is he Who dreams such dree!"

"I go to my old friend's house," he urged, "So do not watch me, pray!"