Tides

Counts, east and west,
When life is done,
His debts to men
In love alone.

ON READING THE MS. OF DOROTHY WORDSWORTH’S JOURNALS

To-day I read the poet’s sister’s book,
She who so comforted those Grasmere days
When song was at the flood, and thence I took
A larger note of fortitude and praise.

And in her ancient fastness beauty stirred,
And happy faith was in my heart again,
Because the virtue of a simple word
Was durable above the lives of men.

For reading there that quiet record made
Of skies and hills, domestic hours, and free
Traffic of friends, and song, and duty paid,
I touched the wings of immortality.

THE OLD WARRIOR

Sorrow has come to me,
Making the world to be
Of sunken cheek;
Faded my fields, and of
Names that were most to love,
I dare not speak.

Would that my soul were blind,
Since duty brings to mind
All that is done,
Saying, ‘How gladly you
Walked with your chosen few
Under my sun.’

I am an alien now;
Tell me, good stranger, how
Best may be borne
His grief who comes at night
To his own window-light
Friendless, forlorn.

No. I will pass. Again
Of my delight in men
Nothing shall tell.
Now is my travel where
My lost companions fare;
Onward. Farewell.

THE GUEST

Sometimes I feel that death is very near,
And, with half-lifted hand,
Looks in my eyes, and tells me not to fear,
But walk his friendly land,
Comrade with him, and wise
As peace is wise.

Then, greatly though my heart with pity moves
For dear imperilled loves,
I somehow know
That death is friendly so,
A comfortable spirit; one who takes
Long thought for all our sakes.

I wonder; will he come that friendly way,
That guest, or roughly in the appointed day?
And will, when the last drops of life are spilt,
My soul be torn from me,
Or, like a ship truly and trimly built,
Slip quietly to sea?

REVERIE

Here in the unfrequented noon,
In the green hermitage of June,
While overhead a rustling wing
Minds me of birds that do not sing
Until the cooler eve rewakes
The service of melodious brakes,
And thoughts are lonely rangers, here,
In shelter of the primrose year,
I curiously meditate
Our brief and variable state.

I think how many are alive
Who better in the grave would thrive,
If some so long a sleep might give
Better instruction how to live;
I think what splendours had been said
By darlings now untimely dead
Had death been wise in choice of these,
And made exchange of obsequies.

I think what loss to government
It is that good men are content,
Well knowing that an evil will