's so sad to leave!"

What shall I your true-love tell,
When I come to him?
What shall I your true-love tell--
Eyes growing dim!

{169}

"Tell him this, when you shall part
From a maiden pined;
That I see him with my heart,
Now my eyes are blind."

What shall I your true-love tell?
Speaking-while is scant.
What shall I your true-love tell,
Death's white postulant?

"Tell him--love, with speech at strife,
For last utterance saith:
I, who loved with all my life,
Love with all my death."

_Francis Thompson._

146. THE FOLLY OF BEING COMFORTED

One that is ever kind said yesterday:
"Your well-beloved's hair has threads of grey,
And little shadows come about her eyes;
Time can but make it easier to be wise,
Though now it's hard, till trouble is at an end;
And so be patient, be wise and patient, friend."
But, heart, there is no comfort, not a grain;
Time can but make her beauty over again,
Because of that great nobleness of hers;
The fire that stirs about her, when she stirs
Burns but more clearly. O she had not these ways,
When all the wild summer was in her gaze.
O heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head,
You'd know the folly of being comforted.

_W. B. Yeats._

{170}

147. AT NIGHT

_To W. M._

Home, home from the horizon far and clear,
Hither the soft wings sweep;
Flocks of the memories of the day draw near
The dovecote doors of sleep.

Oh, which are they that come through sweetest light
Of all these homing birds?
Which with the straightest and the swiftest flight?
Your words to me, your words!

_Alice Meynell_

{171}

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

PAGE

A kiss, a word of thanks, away (_H. C. Beeching_). . . . . . . 142
A naked house, a naked moor (_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . . . 65
A ship, an isle, a sickle moon (_J. E. Flecker_) . . . . . . . 76
All that he came to give (_L. Johnson_) . . . . . . . . . . . 136
All the heavy days are over (_W. B. Yeats_) . . . . . . . . . 167
All winter through I bow my head (_W. de la Mare_) . . . . . . 82
Along the graceless grass of town (_A. Meynell_) . . . . . . . 90
As I went down to Dymchurch wall (_J. Davidson_) . . . . . . . 45
Assemble, all ye maidens, at the door (_B. Bridges_) . . . . . 164
Athwart the sky a l