On the Downs.

CLOUDLAND lay over downland,
Downland lay over sea.

Grey was the cloudland,
Grey-green the downland,
Grey-blue the sea.

Shadows of cloudland
Lay on the downland,

Lay on the sea.
Downland, pastureland,
Dreamland, shadowland,

Pasture of dreams for me.

Red Roses.

"I LOVE red roses," so she said. I brought her one to wear :

She laughed and blushed and bent her head, And wore it in her hair.

"I love red roses," so she said,
Lying in piteous case :

My roses could not bring the red
To that white flower, her face.

"I love red roses." Ah! soon dead
gave.

Were those I long since

"I love red roses," so she said :

These grew beside her grave.

A Canticle of Common Things.

I PRAISE Thee, Father, for the sky,
Thy soft translucent canopy,
The pompous cloudland trailing by.

For large and level plains that swell
To wooded height, sequestered dell,
Not waste, but tilled and watered well.

For elms that break in cloudy green,
With hamlet roofs that peep between,
For orchards rather guessed than seen.

For water, wayward sprite, that runs
So clear and deep, neath dusty suns,
To cleanse and cool Thy little ones.

For thundering weirs and silent wells,
For water-plants with humid cells,
Pink willow-herb and comfray bells.

For autumn, and his flaming hand
Dashed on the covert, with the brand
Of death, and silence subtly planned.

For summer indolently fair,

For winter with her keener air,
For spring with her surprises rare.

I praise Thee, Father, for the prize
Of friendship, whether wild or wise,
The sudden glance of answering eyes.

For motions of bewildering grace,
For spirits sweeter than the face

That screens them; for that lost embrace!

For sessions leisurely and sweet,
When firelight warms the idle feet,
Where fact and fantasy compete.

For music-ah, the gracious thing!—
Or blown aloft on airy wing,

Or throbbing from the tremulous string!

When, in the hushed and crowded choir,
A thousand blended pipes conspire
To thrill the soul with vague desire.

For jests that instantly beguile

The saddest brows to unbend and smile; For masters of melodious style.

For mighty minds to cheer me bent,

More keen than mine, more eloquent,
And how divinely different!

For all illusions, trebly sweet,

Fond dreams of pleasure made complete,

And harbourage for weary feet.

For stubborn hopes that will not die,

Though flouted by the sullen sky,

And based on saddest memory,

For faith that, when my need is sore,
Gleams from a partly-open door,
And shows the firelight on the floor.

For truth herself, that, howsoe'er
Blind in my vileness I despair,
Reigns peerless, absolutely fair.

For wholesome shame, that strongly schools,
By sudden pangs or patient rules,

The raging impulses of fools.

For love, that, when my spirit trips, Through the cold throng towards me slips, And rains soft kisses on my lips.

I praise Thee, Father, though Thou thrust Me crying in the common dust,

Not as I will but as I must.