O trees of life, oh, what when winter comes?
We are not of one mind. Are not like birds
in unison migrating. And overtaken,
overdue, we thrust ourselves into the wind
and fall to earth into indifferent ponds.
Blossoming and withering we comprehend as one.
And somewhere lions roam, quite unaware,
in their magnificence, of any weaknesss.

But we, while wholly concentrating on one thing,
already feel the pressure of another.
Hatred is our first response. And lovers,
are they not forever invading one another's

If Memnon's mother mourned, Achilles's mother mourned,
and our sad fates can touch great goddesses,
then weep, and loose your hair in grief you never earned,
Elegy, now ah! too much like your name.
That bard whose work was yours, who gave you fame, Tibullus,
burns on the mounded pyre, a lifeless corpse.
See Venus's boy, bearing his quiver upside down;
his bow is broken and his torch is quenched;
look how he goes dejected: his wings trail on the ground;
he smites his naked breast with violent hand;

(My student, thrown by a horse)

I remember the neckcurls, limp and damp as tendrils;
And her quick look, a sidelong pickerel smile;
And how, once started into talk, the light syllables leaped for her.
And she balanced in the delight of her thought,
A wren, happy, tail into the wind,
Her song trembling the twigs and small branches.
The shade sang with her;
The leaves, their whispers turned to kissing,
And the mould sang in the bleached valleys under the rose.

It is so--ope thine eyes, and see -
What viewest thou all around?
A desert, where iniquity
And knowledge both abound.

In the waste howling wilderness
The Church is wandering still,
Because we would not onward press
When close to Sion's hill.

Back to the world we faithless turned,
And far along the wild,
With labour lost and sorrow earned,
Our steps have been beguiled.

Yet full before us, all the while,
The shadowing pillar stays,
The living waters brightly smile,
The eternal turrets blaze,

Where the pure Derwent's waters glide
Along their mossy bed,
Close by the river's verdant side,
A castle rear'd its head.

The antient pile by time is raz'd,
Where gothic trophies frown'd,
Where once the gilded armour blaz'd,
And banners wav'd around.

There liv'd a chief well known to fame,
A bold adven'trous knight,
Renown'd for victory, his name
In glory's annals bright.

Yet milder virtues he possest,
And gentler passions felt,
For in his calm and yielding breast
The soft affections dwelt.

'WHY does your brand sae drop wi' blude,
   Edward, Edward?
Why does your brand sae drop wi' blude,
   And why sae sad gang ye, O?'
'O I hae kill'd my hawk sae gude,
   Mither, mither;
O I hae kill'd my hawk sae gude,
   And I had nae mair but he, O.'

'Your hawk's blude was never sae red,
   Edward, Edward;
Your hawk's blude was never sae red,
   My dear son, I tell thee, O.'
'O I hae kill'd my red-roan steed,

We stand about this place -- we, the memories;
And shade our eyes because we dread to read:
"June 17th, 1884, aged 21 years and 3 days."
And all things are changed.
And we -- we, the memories, stand here for ourselves alone,
For no eye marks us, or would know why we are here.
Your husband is dead, your sister lives far away,
Your father is bent with age;
He has forgotten you, he scarcely leaves the house
Any more.
No one remembers your exquisite face,
Your lyric voice!
How you sang, even on the morning you were stricken,

(A.D. 687)


Eddi, priest of St. Wilfrid
In his chapel at Manhood End,
Ordered a midnight service
For such as cared to attend.

But the Saxons were keeping Christmas,
And the night was stormy as well.
Nobody came to service,
Though Eddi rang the bell.

"'Wicked weather for walking,"
Said Eddi of Manhood End.
"But I must go on with the service
For such as care to attend."

The altar-lamps were lighted, --
An old marsh-donkey came,
Bold as a guest invited,
And stared at the guttering flame.

Of the dark past
A child is born;
With joy and grief
My heart is torn.

Calm in his cradle
The living lies.
May love and mercy
Unclose his eyes!

Young life is breathed
On the glass;
The world that was not
Comes to pass.

A child is sleeping:
An old man gone.
O, father forsaken,
Forgive your son!

A man of sorrows and with grief acquainted,
He bowed His beauteous head to the rude hands
Of Pilate’s hireling bands;
And while beneath their cruel scourge He fainted,
Forgave them, yearning through His shameful smart
Even with a brother’s heart.
And when upon their Roman cross they nailed Him,
With mocking hatred and scorn’s bitter smile,
Hark! How He prayed, the while
Nature’s extremest agony assailed Him—
“Father, Thy mercy unto these renew,
They know not what they do.”