A NEW YEAR'S BURDEN.

ALONG the grass sweet airs are blown
Our way this day in Spring.

Of all the songs that we have known
Now which one shall we sing?

Not that, my love, ah no!

Not this, my love? why, so!

Yet both were ours, but hours will come and go

The grove is all a pale frail mist,

The new year sucks the sun.

Of all the kisses that we kissed

Now which shall be the one?

Not that, my love, ah no! –

Not this, my love?-heigh-ho

For all the sweets that all the winds can blow!

The branches cross above our eyes,

The skies are in a net:

And what's the thing beneath the skies

We two would most forget?

Not birth, my love, no, no,

Not death, my love, no, no,

The love once ours, but ours long hours ago.

EVEN SO.

So it is, my dear.

All such things touch secret strings
For heavy hearts to hear.
So it is, my dear.

Very like indeed:

Sea and sky, afar, on high,

Sand and strewn seaweed,

Very like indeed.

But the sea stands spread As one wall with the flat skies,

Where the lean black craft like flies

Seem well-nigh stagnated,

Soon to drop off dead.

Seemed it so to us

When I was thine and thou wast mine,

And all these things were thus,

But all our world in us?

Could we be so now?

Not if all beneath heaven's pall

Lay dead but I and thou,

Could we be so now!

AN OLD SONG ENDED.

'How should I your true love know From another one?'

By his cockle-hat and staff
And his sandal-shoon.

'And what signs have told you now That he hastens home?'

'Lo! the Spring is nearly gone, He is nearly come.'

'For a token is there nought,

Say, that he should bring?'

'He will bear a ring I gave And another ring.'

'How may I, when he shall ask,

Tell him who lies there?'
'Nay, but leave my face unveiled
And unbound my hair.'

'Can you say to me some word
I shall say to him?'
Say I'm looking in his eyes

Though my eves are dim.'

DOWN STREAM.

BETWEEN Holmscote and Hurstcote

The river-reaches wind,

The whispering trees accept the breeze,
The ripple's cool and kind:

With love low-whispered 'twixt the shores,

With rippling laughters gay,

With white arms bared to ply the oars,
On last year's first of May.

Between Holmscote and Hurstcote

The river's brimmed with rain,

Through close-met banks and parted banks

Now near now far again :

With parting tears caressed to smiles,
With meeting promised soon,

With every sweet vow that beguiles,
On last year's first of June.

Between Holmscote and Hurstcote

The river's flecked with foam,

'Neath shuddering clouds that hang in shrouds

And lost winds wild for home :

With infant wailings at the breast,

With homeless steps astray,

With wanderings shuddering tow'rds one rest

On this year's first of May.

Between Holmscote and Hurstcote

The summer river flows

With doubled flight of moons by night

And lilies' deep repose:

With lo! beneath the moon's white stare

A white face not the moon,

With lilies meshed in tangled hair,

On this year's first of June.

Between Holmscote and Hurstcote
A troth was given and riven,
From heart's trust grew one life to two,
Two lost lives cry to Heaven:

With banks spread calm to meet the sky,
With meadows newly mowed,

The harvest-paths of glad July,

The sweet school-children's road.