_Walter de la Mare._
143. A DREAM OF DEATH
I dreamed that one had died in a strange place Near no accustomed hand; And they had nailed the boards above her face, The peasants of that land, And, wondering, planted by her solitude A cypress and a yew: I came, and wrote upon a cross of wood, Man had no more to do: _She was more beautiful than thy first love, This lady by the trees:_ And gazed upon the mournful stars above, And heard the mournful breeze.
_W. B. Yeats._
144. A DREAM Of A BLESSED SPIRIT
All the heavy days are over; Leave the body's coloured pride Underneath the grass and clover, With the feet laid side by side.
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One with her are mirth and duty; Bear the gold embroidered dress, For she needs not her sad beauty, To the scented oaken press.
Hers the kiss of Mother Mary, The long hair is on her face; Still she goes with footsteps wary, Full of earth's old timid grace:
With white feet of angels seven Her white feet go glimmering; And above the deep of heaven, Flame on flame and wing on wing.
_W. B. Yeats._
145. MESSAGES
What shall I your true-love tell, Earth-forsaking maid?
What shall I your true-love tell, When life's spectre's laid?
"Tell him that, our side the grave, Maid may not conceive Life should be so sad to have, That's so sad to leave!"
What shall I your true-love tell, When I come to him?
What shall I your true-love tell-- Eyes growing dim!
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"Tell him this, when you shall part From a maiden pined; That I see him with my heart, Now my eyes are blind."
What shall I your true-love tell?
Speaking-while is scant.
What shall I your true-love tell, Death's white postulant?
"Tell him--love, with speech at strife, For last utterance saith: I, who loved with all my life, Love with all my death."
_Francis Thompson._
146. THE FOLLY OF BEING COMFORTED
One that is ever kind said yesterday: "Your well-beloved's hair has threads of grey, And little shadows come about her eyes; Time can but make it easier to be wise, Though now it's hard, till trouble is at an end; And so be patient, be wise and patient, friend."
But, heart, there is no comfort, not a grain; Time can but make her beauty over again, Because of that great nobleness of hers; The fire that stirs about her, when she stirs Burns but more clearly. O she had not these ways, When all the wild summer was in her gaze.
O heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head, You'd know the folly of being comforted.
_W. B. Yeats._
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147. AT NIGHT
_To W. M._
Home, home from the horizon far and clear, Hither the soft wings sweep; Flocks of the memories of the day draw near The dovecote doors of sleep.
Oh, which are they that come through sweetest light Of all these homing birds?
Which with the straightest and the swiftest flight?
Your words to me, your words!
_Alice Meynell_