LAID close to Death, these many thousand years,

        In this small seed Life hid herself and smiled;

        So well she hid, Death was at least beguiled,

        Set free the grain—and lo! the sevenfold ears!

        Warmed by the sun, wooed by the wind's soft word,

        Under blue canopy they hold their state:

        For this, ah, was it not worth while to wait

        Through all the centuries of hope deferred?

        What could they know who laid the seed with Death

        Of this Divine fruition fixed and planned?

        Love—since Life parts us—lend my hand your hand

        And look with me into the eyes of faith.

        For here between your hand and mine there lies

        A little seed we trust to Death to keep

        Through unimagined centuries of sleep

        Until the day when Life shall bid it rise.

        Our harvest waits us. Who knows where or how,

        What worlds away, wrapped in what coil of pain?

        But Life shall bid us pluck gold sevenfold grain

        Grown from the love she bids us bury now.

        MY beautiful beech, your smooth grey coat is trimmed

        With letters. Once, each stood for all things dear

        To foolish lovers, dead this many a year,

        Whose lamp of lighted love so soon was dimmed.

        You have seen them come and go,

        And heard their kisses and vows

        Under your boughs,

        The pitiful vows they swore,

        Have seen their poor tears flow,

        Have seen them part; to meet, and to return, no more!

        And in old winters, through your branches bare,

        The north wind drove the blue home-scented smoke

        That on the glowing Christmas hearth awoke

        Where the old logs, with eager flicker and flare,

        Sang their low crackling song

        Of peace and of good will.

        The old song is still,

        The old voices have died away,

        The hearth has been cold so long,

        And the bright faces dimmed and covered up with clay.

        And summer after summer wakes to glow

        The ordered pleasance with the clipped box-hedge,

        The drooping lilac by the old moat's edge,

        The roses, that throw you kisses from below,

        The orchard pink and white,

        The sedge's whispered words,

        The nesting birds,

        All these return to revel round your feet.

        And in the untroubled night

        The nightingale still sings, the jasmine still is sweet.

        My beautiful beech, I carve upon you here

        The master-letter which begins her name

        Through whom, to me, the royal summer came,

        And nightingale and rose, and all things dear.

        And, in some far-off time,

        I shall come here, weary and old,

        When the hearth in my heart is cold

        And the birds that nest there flown;

        I will remember this summer in all its prime

        And say, "There was a day—

        Thank God, the Giver, an unforgotten day,

        When I walked here, not alone,

        —O God of pity and sorrow, not alone!"

        WAKE, do you wake in the dark in the strange far place,

        Window and door not set like the ones we knew,

        Leaning your face through the dark for another face,

        Stretching your arms to the arms that are far from you,

        Even as I, through the depth of this darkness, do?

        Sleep, do you sleep in the house in the lonely land?

        In the lonely room do you hear no steps draw near?

        Do you miss in the darkness the hand that implores your hand,

        See through the darkness your last dream disappear,

        And weep, as I weep, in the outer darkness here?

        Dream, do you dream? Nay, never a dream will stay,

        Never a phantom is fond, or a vision kind.

        Your dreams elude you and fly through the dark my way,

        My dreams fly forth to you whom they may not find;

        And we in the darkness weep, we weep and are left behind.

        So silent is the world to-night

        The lamp gives silence out like light,

        The latticed windows open wide

        Show silence, like the night, outside:

        The nightingale's faint song draws near

        Like musical silence to mine ear.

        The empty house calls not to me,

        "Here, but for fate, were thou and she—"

        Its gibe for once is checked. To-night

        Silence is queen in grief's despite,

        And even the longing of my soul

        Is silent 'neath this hour's control.

        O WEARY night, O weary day,

        When heart's delight is far away!

        What is the day? A frame of blue

        The vacant-glaring sun grins through.

        What is the night? A sable veil

        Through which the moon peers tired and pale.

        O weary day! O weary night!

        How far away is heart's delight!

        Love hung the sun in his high place

        To