Through the small room, with subtle sound
Of flame, by vents the fireshine drove

And reddened. In its dim alcove

The mirror shed a clearness round.

I had been sitting up some nights,

And my tired mind felt weak and blank; Like a sharp strengthening wine it drank The stillness and the broken lights.

Twelve struck. That sound, by dwindling years
Heard in each hour, crept off; and then
The ruffled silence spread again,

Like water that a pebble stirs.

Our mother rose from where she sat :
Her needles, as she laid them down,
Met lightly, and her silken gown
Settled no other noise than that.

'Glory unto the Newly Born!'

So, as said angels, she did say;
Because we were in Christmas Day,

Though it would still be long till morn.

Just then in the room over us

There was a pushing back of chairs,

As some who had sat unawares
So late, now heard the hour, and rose.

With anxious softly-stepping haste
Our mother went where Margaret lay,
Fearing the sounds o'erhead-should they

Have broken her long watched-for rest!

She stopped an instant, calm, and turned; But suddenly turned back again;

And all her features seemed in pain

With woe, and her eyes gazed and yearned.

For my part, I but hid my face,

And held my breath, and spoke no word:

There was none spoken; but I heard The silence for a little space.

Our mother bowed herself and wept :

And both my arms fell, and I said,

'God knows I knew that she was dead.'

And there, all white, my sister slept.

Then kneeling, upon Christmas morn A little after twelve o'clock

We said, ere the first quarter struck, 'Christ's blessing on the newly born!'

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.