That land's name, say'st thou? and the road thereto?

Nay, Book, thou mockest, saying thou know'st it not;

Surely no book of verse I ever knew But ever was the heart within him hot To gain the Land of Matters Unforgot-There. now we both laugh-as the whole world may,

At us poor singers of an empty day.

Nay, let it pass, and harken! Hast thou heard

That therein I believe I have a friend, Of whom for love I may not be afeared? It is to him indeed I bid thee wend: Yea, he perchance may meet thee ere thou end,

Dying so far off from the hedge of bay, Thou idle singer of an empty day!

Well, think of him, I bid thee, on the road.

And if it hap that midst of thy defeat, Fainting beneath thy follies' heavy load, My Master. GEOFFREY CHAUCER, thou do meet.

Then shalt thou win a space of rest full

sweet:

Then be thou bold, and speak the words I say.

The idle singer of an empty day!

"O Master, O thou great of heart and

tongue,

Thou well mayst ask me why I wander here.

In raiment rent of stories oft besung! But of thy gentleness draw thou anear. And then the heart of one who held thee dear

Mayst thou behold! So near as that I lay Unto the singer of an empty day.

For this he ever said, who sent me forth

To seek a place amid thy company: That howsoever little was my worth, Yet was he worth e'en just so much as I:

He said that rhyme hath little skill to lie:

Nor feigned to cast his worser part away; In idle singing for an empty day.

“I have beheld him tremble oft enough At things he could not choose but trust

Spring. Spring am I, too soft of heart
Much to speak ere I depart :
Ask the Summer-tide to prove
The abundance of my love.

Summer. Summer looked for long am I;
Much shall change or e'er I die
Prithee take it not amiss
Though I weary thee with bliss.

Autumn. Laden Autumn here I stand
Worn of heart, and weak of hand:
Nought but rest seems good to me,
Speak the word that sets me free.
Winter. I am Winter, that do keep
Longing safe amidst of sleep :
Who shall say if I were dead
What should be remembered?

ERROR AND LOSS 1

1871.

UPON an eve I sat me down and wept, Because the world to me seemed nowise

good;

Still autumn was it, and the meadows slept,

The misty hills dreamed, and the silent wood [mood: Seemed listening to the sorrow of my

1 Originally with the title The Dark Wood.

I knew not if the earth with me did grieve,

Or if it mock'd my grief that bitter eve.

Then 'twixt my tears a maiden did I see, Who drew anigh me on the leaf-strewn grass,

Then stood and gazed upon me pitifully With grief-worn eyes, until my woe did pass

From me to her, and tearless now I was, And she mid tears was asking me of one She long had sought unaided and alone.

I knew not of him, and she turned away Into the dark wood, and my own great pain

Still held me there, till dark had slain the day,

And perished at the gray dawn's hand again;

Then from the wood a voice cried: "Ah,

And we, shall we too, crouch and quail,
Ashamed, afraid of strife,
And lest our lives untimely fail
Embrace the Death in Life?
Nay, cry aloud, and have no fear,
We few against the world;
Awake, arise! the hope we bear
Against the curse is hurled.

It grows and grows-are we the same,
The feeble band, the few?

Or what are these with eyes aflame,
And hands to deal and do?
This is the host that bears the word,
"NO MASTER HIGH OR LOW "—
A lightning flame, a shearing sword,
A storm to overthrow.

THE DAY IS COMING

1884.

Come hither, lads, and harken, for a tale there is to tell,

Of the wonderful days a-coming, when all shall be better than well.

And the tale shall be told of a country, a land in the midst of the sea, And folk shall call it England in the days that are going to be.

There more than one in a thousand in the days that are yet to come, Shall have some hope of the morrow, some joy of the ancient home.

For then, laugh not, but listen to this strange tale of mine,

All folk that are in England shall be better lodged than swine.

Then a man shall work and bethink him, and rejoice in the deeds of his hand,

Nor yet come home in the even too faint and weary to stand.

Men in that time a-coming shall work and have no fear

For to-morrow's lack of earning and the hunger-wolf anear.

I tell you this for a wonder, that no man then shall be glad

Of his fellow's fall and mishap to snatch at the work he had.

For that which the worker winneth shall then be his indeed,

Nor shall half be reaped for nothing by him that sowed no seed.

O strange new wonderful justice! But for whom shall we gather the gain? For ourselves and for each of our fellows, and no hand shall labor in vain. Then all Mine and all Thine shall be Ours, and no more shall any man crave For riches that serve for nothing but to fetter a friend for a slave.

And what wealth then shall be left us when none shall gather gold To buy his friend in the market, and pinch and pine the sold?

Nay, what save the lovely city, and the little house on the hill, And the wastes and the woodland beauty, and the happy fields we till;

And the homes of ancient stories, the tombs of the mighty dead: And the wise men seeking out marvels, and the poet's teeming head;