XI

TO WILL. H. LOW

OUTH now flees on feathered foot,

YOUTH

Faint and fainter sounds the flute, Rarer songs of gods; and still Somewhere on the sunny hill, Or along the winding stream, Through the willows, flits a dream; Flits, but shows a smiling face, Flees, but with so quaint a grace, None can choose to stay at home, All must follow, all must roam.

This is unborn beauty: she
Now in air floats high and free,

Takes the sun and breaks the blue;

Late with stooping pinion flew
Raking hedgerow trees, and wet

Her wing in silver streams, and set

Shining foot on temple roof:

Now again she flies aloof,

Coasting mountain clouds and kiss't

By the evening's amethyst.

In wet wood and miry lane,

Still we pant and pound in vain;

TO WILL H. LOW

Still with leaden foot we chase
Waning pinion, fainting face;
Still with grey hair we stumble on,
Till, behold, the vision gone!
Where hath fleeting beauty led?
To the doorway of the dead.
Life is over, life was gay:
We have come the primrose way.

XII

TO MRS. WILL. H. LOW

'VEN in the bluest noonday of July,

of

There could not run the smallest breath of wind

But all the quarter sounded like a wood;

And in the chequered silence and above

The hum of city cabs that sought the Bois,
Suburban ashes shivered into song.

A patter and a chatter and a chirp

And a long dying hiss-it was as though
Starched old brocaded dames through all the house
Had trailed a strident skirt, or the whole sky
Even in a wink had over-brimmed in rain.
Hark, in these shady parlours, how it talks
Of the near autumn, how the smitten ash
Trembles and augurs floods! O not too long
In these inconstant latitudes delay,

O not too late from the unbeloved north
Trim your escape! For soon shall this low roof
Resound indeed with rain, soon shall your eyes
Search the foul garden, search the darkened rooms,
Nor find one jewel but the blazing log.

12 RUE VERNIER, Paris.

TO H. F. BROWN

(Written during a dangerous sickness)

I

SIT and wait a pair of oars

On cis-Elysian river-shores.
Where the immortal dead have sate,
'T is mine to sit and meditate;
To re-ascend life's rivulet,
Without remorse, without regret;
And sing my Alma Genetrix
Among the willows of the Styx.

And lo, as my serener soul
Did these unhappy shores patrol,
And wait with an attentive ear
The coming of the gondolier,
Your fire-surviving roll I took,
Your spirited and happy book;1
Whereon, despite my frowning fate,
It did my soul so recreate

That all my fancies fled away

On a Venetian holiday.

1 Life on the Lagoons, by H. F. Brown, originally burned in the fire

at Messrs. Kegan Paul, Trench & Co.'s.

Now, thanks to your triumphant care, Your pages clear as April air,

The sails, the bells, the birds, I know,
And the far-off Friulan snow;

The land and sea, the sun and shade,
And the blue even lamp-inlaid.

For this, for these, for all, O friend,
For your whole book from end to end
For Paron Piero's muttonham

I your defaulting debtor am.

Perchance, reviving, yet may I
To your sea-paven city hie,
And in a felze, some day yet
Light at your pipe my cigarette.