st tread
Whereto he may be led--
Lost evermore."

"Look," said another,
"Summit and slope
Burn, in the mountain-land--
Basement and cope!
Till daylight, dying dim,
Faints on the world's red rim,
We'll tint this Dream for him
Even--with hope!"

Cui Bono?

A clamour by day and a whisper by night,
And the Summer comes--with the shining noons,
With the ripple of leaves, and the passionate light
Of the falling suns and the rising moons.

And the ripple of leaves and the purple and red
Die for the grapes and the gleam of the wheat,
And then you may pause with the splendours, or tread
On the yellow of Autumn with lingering feet.

You may halt with the face to a flying sea,
Or stand like a gloom in the gloom of things,
When the moon drops down and the desolate lea
Is troubled with thunder and desolate wings.

But alas for the grey of the wintering eves,
And the pondering storms and the ruin of rains;
And alas for the Spring like a flame in the leaves,
And the green of the woods and the gold of the lanes!

For, seeing all pathos is mixed with our past,
And knowing all sadness of storm and of surge
Is salt with our tears for the faith that was cast
Away like a weed o'er a bottomless verge,

I am lost for these tokens, and wearied of ways
Wedded with ways that are waning amain,
Like those that are filled with the trouble that slays;
Having drunk of their life to the lees that are pain.

And yet I would write to you! I who have turned
Away with a bitter disguise in the eyes,
And bitten the lips that have trembled and burned
Alone for you, darling, and breaking with sighs.

Because I have touched with my fingers a dress
That was Beauty's; because that the breath of thy mouth
Is sweetness that lingers; because of each tress
Showered down on thy shoulders; because of the drouth

That came in thy absence; because of the lights
In the Passion that grew to a level with thee--
Is it well that our lives have been filled with the nights
And the days which have made it a sorrow to be?

Yea, thus having tasted all love with thy lips,
And having the warmth of thy hand in mine own,
Is it well that we wander, like parallel ships,
With the silence between us, aloof and alone?

With my face to the wall shall I sleep and forget
The