n strange altars cry and call ...
Ah, patient gods, be patient with us yet,
And Pan, pipe on, pipe on, till we shall rise,
And follow, and be happy, and be wise.

THE HUNTED

There is no rest for them, even in Death:
As life had harried them from lair to lair,
Still with unquiet eyes and furtive breath,
They haunt the secret by-ways of the air.
They know Earth's outer regions like a street,
And on pale ships that make no port of call,
They pass in silence when they chance to meet,
Saying no names, telling no tales at all.

Yet, on November nights of wind and storm,
Shivered and driven from their ghostly shores,
They peer in lighted windows glowing warm,
And thrill again at dear, remembered doors--
But they are wary listeners in the night:
Speak but a name, and they are off in flight.

THE SCHOOL BOY READS HIS ILIAD

The sounding battles leave him nodding still:
The din of javelins at the distant wall
Is far too faint to wake that weary will
That all but sleeps for cities where they fall.
He cares not if this Helen's face were fair,
Nor if the thousand ships shall go or stay;
In vain the rumbling chariots throng the air
With sounds the centuries shall not hush away.

Beyond the window where the Spring is new,
Are marbles in a square, and tops again,
And floating voices tell him what they do,
Luring his thought from these long-warring men,----
And though the camp be visited with gods,
He dreams of marbles and of tops, and nods.

MOMENTS

Earth has been splendid in her changing moods,
Whose scattered glories mark the moment spent;
Reliques of mirth or thoughtful solitudes
Betoken what a Christ or Dante meant.
What smiling dream, what happy, happy hour
Yielded an Athens for the bride of Time!
What darker reverie wrought the Roman flower
Whose crimson petals stained the grass with crime!

Mood after mood, its subtle secret hid,
Plies in the earth and has its moody way,
Patient or swift--to build a pyramid,
Or strike a Phidias from the quickened clay ...
A reverie, that is cities on a hill,
Or laughter trembling in a daffodil.

CLEAR MORNING

The air is full of thin and blowing bells
Whose delicate, faint music breaks and swells

For every lightest wind, and dies unheard,--
Unless it b