And when, with weariness oppressed, I sink in spite of you to rest, Your image, like a lovely sprite, Haunts me in dreams through half the night.

I wake upon the autumn morn To find the sunrise hardly born, And in the sky a soft pale blue, And in my heart your image true.

When out I walk to take the air, Your image is for ever there, Among the woods that lose their leaves, Or where the North Sea sadly heaves.

By what enchantment shall be laid This ghost, which does not make afraid, But vexes with dim loveliness And many a shadowy caress?

There is no other way I know But unto you forthwith to go, That I may look upon the maid Whereof that other is the shade.

As the strong sun puts out the moon, Whose borrowed rays are all his own, So, in your living presence, dies The phantom kindled at your eyes.

By this most blessed spell, each day The vexing ghost awhile I lay.

Yet am I glad to know that when I leave you it will rise again.

COME BACK TO ST. ANDREWS

Come back to St. Andrews! Before you went away You said you would be wretched where you could not see the Bay, The East sands and the West sands and the castle in the sea Come back to St. Andrews--St. Andrews and me.

Oh, it's dreary along South Street when the rain is coming down, And the east wind makes the student draw more close his warm red gown, As I often saw you do, when I watched you going by On the stormy days to College, from my window up on high.

I wander on the Lade Braes, where I used to walk with you, And purple are the woods of Mount Melville, budding new, But I cannot bear to look, for the tears keep coming so, And the Spring has lost the freshness which it had a year ago.

Yet often I could fancy, where the pathway takes a turn, I shall see you in a moment, coming round beside the burn, Coming round beside the burn, with your swinging step and free, And your face lit up with pleasure at the sudden sight of me.

Beyond the Rock and Spindle, where we watched the water clear In the happy April sunshine, with a happy sound to hear, There I sat this afternoon, but no hand was holding mine, And the water sounded eerie, though the April sun did shine.

Oh, why should I complain of what I know was bound to be?

For you had your way to make, and you must not think of me.

But a woman's heart is weak, and a woman's joys are few-- There are times when I could die for a moment's sight of you.

It may be you will come again, before my hair is grey As the sea is in the twilight of a weary winter's day.

When success is grown a burden, and your heart would fain be free, Come back to St. Andrews--St. Andrews and me.

THE SOLITARY

I have been lonely all my days on earth, Living a life within my secret soul, With mine own springs of sorrow and of mirth, Beyond the world's control.

Though sometimes with vain longing I have sought To walk the paths where other mortals tread, To wear the clothes for other mortals wrought, And eat the selfsame bread--

Yet have I ever found, when thus I strove To mould my life upon the common plan, That I was furthest from all truth and love, And least a living man.

Truth frowned upon my poor hypocrisy, Life left my soul, and dwelt but in my sense; No man could love me, for all men could see The hollow vain pretence.

Their clothes sat on me with outlandish air, Upon their easy road I tripped and fell, And still I sickened of the wholesome fare On which they nourished well.

I was a stranger in that company, A Galilean whom his speech bewrayed, And when they lifted up their songs of glee, My voice sad discord made.

Peace for mine own self I could never find, And still my presence marred the general peace, And when I parted, leaving them behind, They felt, and I, release.

So will I follow now my spirit's bent, Not scorning those who walk the beaten track, Yet not despising mine own banishment, Nor often looking back.

Their way is best for them, but mine for me.

And there is comfort for my lonely heart, To think perhaps our journeys' ends may be Not very far apart.

TO ALFRED TENNYSON--1883

Familiar with thy melody, We go debating of its power, As churls, who hear it hour by hour, Contemn the skylark's minstrelsy--

As shepherds on a Highland lea Think lightly of the heather flower Which makes the moorland's purple dower, As far away as eye can see.

Let churl or shepherd change his sky, And labour in the city dark, Where there is neither air nor room-- How often will the exile sigh To hear again the unwearied lark, And see the heather's lavish bloom!

ICHABOD

Gone is the glory from the hills, The autumn sunshine from the mere, Which mourns for the declining year In all her tributary rills.

A sense of change obscurely chills The misty twilight atmosphere, In which familiar things appear Like alien ghosts, foreboding ills.

The twilight hour a month ago Was full of pleasant warmth and ease, The pearl of all the twenty-four.

Erelong the winter gales shall blow, Erelong the winter frosts shall freeze-- And oh, that it were June once more!

AT A HIGH CEREMONY

Not the proudest damsel here Looks so well as doth my dear.

All the borrowed light of dress Outshining not her loveliness,

A loveliness not born of art, But growing outwards from her heart, Illuminating all her face, And filling all her form with grace.