AQUAE SULIS

The chimes called midnight, just at interlune, And the daytime talk of the Roman investigations Was checked by silence, save for the husky tune The bubbling waters played near the excavations.

And a warm air came up from underground, And a flutter, as of a filmy shape unsepulchred, That collected itself, and waited, and looked around: Nothing was seen, but utterances could be heard:

Those of the G.o.ddess whose shrine was beneath the pile Of the G.o.d with the baldachined altar overhead: "And what did you get by raising this nave and aisle Close on the site of the temple I tenanted?

"The notes of your organ have thrilled down out of view To the earth-clogged wrecks of my edifice many a year, Though stately and shining once--ay, long ere you Had set up crucifix and candle here.

"Your priests have trampled the dust of mine without rueing, Despising the joys of man whom I so much loved, Though my springs boil on by your Gothic arcades and pewing, And sculptures crude . . . Would Jove they could be removed!"

"--Repress, O lady proud, your traditional ires; You know not by what a frail thread we equally hang; It is said we are images both--twitched by people's desires; And that I, like you, fail as a song men yesterday sang!"

And the olden dark hid the cavities late laid bare, And all was suspended and soundless as before, Except for a gossamery noise fading off in the air, And the boiling voice of the waters' medicinal pour.

BATH.

SEVENTY-FOUR AND TWENTY

Here goes a man of seventy-four, Who sees not what life means for him, And here another in years a score Who reads its very figure and trim.

The one who shall walk to-day with me Is not the youth who gazes far, But the breezy wight who cannot see What Earth's ingrained conditions are.

THE ELOPEMENT

"A woman never agreed to it!" said my knowing friend to me.

"That one thing she'd refuse to do for Solomon's mines in fee: No woman ever will make herself look older than she is."

I did not answer; but I thought, "you err there, ancient Quiz."

It took a rare one, true, to do it; for she was surely rare - As rare a soul at that sweet time of her life as she was fair.

And urging motives, too, were strong, for ours was a pa.s.sionate case, Yea, pa.s.sionate enough to lead to freaking with that young face.

I have told no one about it, should perhaps make few believe, But I think it over now that life looms dull and years bereave, How blank we stood at our bright wits' end, two frail barks in distress, How self-regard in her was slain by her large tenderness.

I said: "The only chance for us in a crisis of this kind Is going it thorough!"--"Yes," she calmly breathed. "Well, I don't mind."

And we blanched her dark locks ruthlessly: set wrinkles on her brow; Ay--she was a right rare woman then, whatever she may be now.

That night we heard a coach drive up, and questions asked below.

"A gent with an elderly wife, sir," was returned from the bureau.

And the wheels went rattling on, and free at last from public ken We washed all off in her chamber and restored her youth again.

How many years ago it was! Some fifty can it be Since that adventure held us, and she played old wife to me?

But in time convention won her, as it wins all women at last, And now she is rich and respectable, and time has buried the past.

"I ROSE UP AS MY CUSTOM IS"

I rose up as my custom is On the eve of All-Souls' day, And left my grave for an hour or so To call on those I used to know Before I pa.s.sed away.

I visited my former Love As she lay by her husband's side; I asked her if life pleased her, now She was rid of a poet wrung in brow, And crazed with the ills he eyed;

Who used to drag her here and there Wherever his fancies led, And point out pale phantasmal things, And talk of vain vague purposings That she discredited.

She was quite civil, and replied, "Old comrade, is that you?

Well, on the whole, I like my life. - I know I swore I'd be no wife, But what was I to do?

"You see, of all men for my s.e.x A poet is the worst; Women are practical, and they Crave the wherewith to pay their way, And slake their social thirst.

"You were a poet--quite the ideal That we all love awhile: But look at this man snoring here - He's no romantic chanticleer, Yet keeps me in good style.

"He makes no quest into my thoughts, But a poet wants to know What one has felt from earliest days, Why one thought not in other ways, And one's Loves of long ago."

Her words benumbed my fond frail ghost; The nightmares neighed from their stalls The vampires screeched, the harpies flew, And under the dim dawn I withdrew To Death's inviolate halls.

A WEEK

On Monday night I closed my door, And thought you were not as heretofore, And little cared if we met no more.

I seemed on Tuesday night to trace Something beyond mere commonplace In your ideas, and heart, and face.

On Wednesday I did not opine Your life would ever be one with mine, Though if it were we should well combine.

On Thursday noon I liked you well, And fondly felt that we must dwell Not far apart, whatever befell.

On Friday it was with a thrill In gazing towards your distant vill I owned you were my dear one still.

I saw you wholly to my mind On Sat.u.r.day--even one who shrined All that was best of womankind.