and kind and hospitable earth.

REVIVAL

This body, gathering slumber as it goes,
Will come too full of sleep for wandering,
And so lie down,--and yet it somehow knows
It never could be careless of the Spring;
But turning with the happy-minded earth,
When straying Aprils stir the sentient mould,
It still will know these festivals of mirth,
These subtle sorceries of green and gold.

And we may yet discover, after all,
How flesh is glory whitening on the hedge,
Or wine-red tulips burning at a wall;--
And we may learn, by some wild-flowered ledge,
How solemn dust at last turns gay again,
To light the Spring for later, wandering men.

IMPOSTOR

This Autumn of the yellow lanes
Is come a sorry vagabond,
Grown tearful now and over-fond
Of grey and melancholy rains.

He loves his griefs and broken sighs,
His sorrows of a thousand years,--
And thinks we do not know those tears
Are wood-smoke in his eyes.

If leaves go by us in a gust,
He needs must clutch his heart, and say:
"Alas" or else "Alack-a-day"--
And thinks we take it all on trust.

So sad and sad a rake he is!--
And yet so glad of being sad,
Knowing no fellow ever had
Such fine, becoming griefs as his.

SNOW DUSK

The iron twilight closes, and the steep
Gates of the day where late the light was hurled,
Swing to on silent hinges, and a sleep,
A still, white sleep is fallen on the world.
There is no stir these trackless miles around:
The Earth is turned a grey cathedral close,
Where is forgot all motion and all sound,
Beneath these smooth, obliterating snows.

One burning taper trembles ... and the sky
Curves like a dome where cloudy anthems are,
Above immaculate distances that lie
In thoughtful adoration of a star ...
Earth has her veil, and takes her silent vow:
Nothing save holiness is left her now.

MOOD

This grave, unlabouring beauty of the dusk,
Stars and still fields and swallows in the sky,
These cool, damp odours faint with earthen musk,
The fading sheep like ghosts of sheep gone by,--
Have held so long the thought of brooding men,
That something like a mood has gathered there,
Piled deep and high, again and yet again,
A moving, thoughtful presence on the air.

So when the last light passes f