XLVI--To R. A. M. S.

The Spirit of Wine Sang in my gla.s.s, and I listened With love to his odorous music, His flushed and magnificent song.

- 'I am health, I am heart, I am life!

For I give for the asking The fire of my father, the Sun, And the strength of my mother, the Earth.

Inspiration in essence, I am wisdom and wit to the wise, His visible muse to the poet, The soul of desire to the lover, The genius of laughter to all.

'Come, lean on me, ye that are weary!

Rise, ye faint-hearted and doubting!

Haste, ye that lag by the way!

I am Pride, the consoler; Valour and Hope are my henchmen; I am the Angel of Rest.

'I am life, I am wealth, I am fame: For I captain an army Of shining and generous dreams; And mine, too, all mine, are the keys Of that secret spiritual shrine, Where, his work-a-day soul put by, Shut in with his saint of saints - With his radiant and conquering self - Man worships, and talks, and is glad.

'Come, sit with me, ye that are lovely, Ye that are paid with disdain, Ye that are chained and would soar!

I am beauty and love; I am friendship, the comforter; I am that which forgives and forgets.' -

The Spirit of Wine Sang in my heart, and I triumphed In the savour and scent of his music, His magnetic and mastering song.

XLII

A wink from Hesper, falling Fast in the wintry sky, Comes through the even blue, Dear, like a word from you . . .

Is it good-bye?

Across the miles between us I send you sigh for sigh.

Good-night, sweet friend, good-night: Till life and all take flight, Never good-bye.

XLII

Friends . . . old friends . . .

One sees how it ends.

A woman looks Or a man tells lies, And the pleasant brooks And the quiet skies, Ruined with brawling And caterwauling, Enchant no more As they did before.

And so it ends With friends.

Friends . . . old friends . . .

And what if it ends?

Shall we dare to shirk What we live to learn?

It has done its work, It has served its turn; And, forgive and forget Or hanker and fret, We can be no more As we were before.

When it ends, it ends With friends.

Friends . . . old friends . . .

So it breaks, so it ends.

There let it rest!

It has fought and won, And is still the best That either has done.

Each as he stands The work of its hands, Which shall be more As he was before? . . .

What is it ends With friends?

XLIV

If it should come to be, This proof of you and me, This type and sign Of hours that smiled and shone, And yet seemed dead and gone As old-world wine:

Of Them Within the Gate Ask we no richer fate, No boon above, For girl child or for boy, My gift of life and joy, Your gift of love.

XLV--To W. B.

From the brake the Nightingale Sings exulting to the Rose; Though he sees her waxing pale In her pa.s.sionate repose, While she triumphs waxing frail, Fading even while she glows; Though he knows How it goes - Knows of last year's Nightingale Dead with last year's Rose.

Wise the enamoured Nightingale, Wise the well-beloved Rose!

Love and life shall still prevail, Nor the silence at the close Break the magic of the tale In the telling, though it shows - Who but knows How it goes! - Life a last year's Nightingale, Love a last year's Rose.

XLVI--MATRI DILECTISSIMAE--I.M.

In the waste hour Between to-day and yesterday We watched, while on my arm - Living flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone - Dabbled in sweat the sacred head Lay uncomplaining, still, contemptuous, strange: Till the dear face turned dead, And to a sound of lamentation The good, heroic soul with all its wealth - Its sixty years of love and sacrifice, Suffering and pa.s.sionate faith--was reabsorbed In the inexorable Peace, And life was changed to us for evermore.

Was nothing left of her but tears Like blood-drops from the heart?

Nought save remorse For duty unfulfilled, justice undone, And charity ignored? Nothing but love, Forgiveness, reconcilement, where in truth, But for this pa.s.sing Into the unimaginable abyss These things had never been?

Nay, there were we, Her five strong sons!

To her Death came--the great Deliverer came! - As equal comes to equal, throne to throne.

She was a mother of men.

The stars shine as of old. The unchanging River, Bent on his errand of immortal law, Works his appointed way To the immemorial sea.

And the brave truth comes overwhelmingly home:- That she in us yet works and shines, Lives and fulfils herself, Unending as the river and the stars.

Dearest, live on In such an immortality As we thy sons, Born of thy body and nursed At those wild, faithful b.r.e.a.s.t.s, Can give--of generous thoughts, And honourable words, and deeds That make men half in love with fate!