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DANTIS TENEBRÆ.

(In Memory of my Father.)

AND did'st thou know indeed, when at the font
Together with thy name thou gav'st me his,
That also on thy son must Beatrice

Decline her eyes according to her wont,
Accepting me to be of those that haunt
The vale of magical dark mysteries

Where to the hills her poet's foot-track lies
And wisdom's living fountain to his chaunt
Trembles in music? This is that steep land
Where he that holds his journey stands at gaze
Tow'rd sunset, when the clouds like a new height
Seem piled to climb. These things I understand:
For here, where day still soothes my lifted face,
On thy bowed head, my father, fell the night.

BEAUTY AND THE BIRD.

SHE fluted with her mouth as when one sips,
And gently waved her golden head, inclin'd
Outside his cage close to the window-blind;
Till her fond bird, with little turns and dips,
Piped low to her of sweet companionships.

And when he made an end, some seed took she
And fed him from her tongue, which rosily
Peeped as a piercing bud between her lips.

And like the child in Chaucer, on whose tongue
The Blessed Mary laid, when he was dead,

A grain, who straightway praised her name in song:
Even so, when she, a little lightly red,

Now turned on me and laughed, I heard the throng

Of inner voices praise her golden head.

A MATCH WITH THE MOON.

WEARY already, weary miles to-night

I walked for bed: and so, to get some ease,
I dogged the flying moon with similes.
And like a wisp she doubled on my sight

In ponds; and caught in tree-tops like a kite;
And in a globe of film all vapourish

Swam full-faced like a silly silver fish ;

Last like a bubble shot the welkin's height

Where my road turned, and got behind me, and sent

My wizened shadow craning round at me,

And jeered, 'So, step the measure,

-one two three !'--

And if I faced on her, looked innocent.

But just at parting, halfway down a dell,

She kissed me for goodnight. So you'll not tell.

AUTUMN IDLENESS.

THIS Sunlight shames November where he grieves
In dead red leaves, and will not let him shun
The day, though bough with bough be over-run
But with a blessing every glade receives
High salutation; while from hillock-eaves

The deer gaze calling, dappled white and dun,
As if, being foresters of old, the sun

Had marked them with the shade of forest-leaves.

Here dawn to-day unveiled her magic glass;

Here noon now gives the thirst and takes the dew;

Till eve bring rest when other good things pass.
And here the lost hours the lost hours renew
While I still lead my shadow o'er the grass,

Nor know, for longing, that which I should do.

FAREWELL TO THE GLEN.

SWEET stream-fed glen, why say 'farewell' to thee
Who far'st so well and find'st for ever smooth
The brow of Time where man may read no ruth?
Nay, do thou rather say 'farewell' to me,

Who now fare forth in bitterer fantasy

Than erst was mine where other shade might soothe

By other streams, what while in fragrant youth The bliss of being sad made melancholy.

And yet, farewell! For better shalt thou fare

When children bathe sweet faces in thy flow And happy lovers blend sweet shadows there In hours to come, than when an hour ago Thine echoes had but one man's sighs to bear

And thy trees whispered what he feared to know.

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