Shy dreams flit to and fro With shadowy hair dispread; With wistful eyes that glow, And silent robes that sweep. Thou wilt not hear me; no? Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?

What cause hast thou to show Of sacrifice unsped?

Of all thy slaves below

I most have labourèd

With service sung and said;
Have cull'd such buds as blow,
Soft poppies white and red,
Where thy still gardens grow,
And Lethe's waters weep.
Why, then, art thou my foe?
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?

ENVOY

Prince, ere the dark be shred By golden shafts, ere low And long the shadows creep: Lord of the wand of lead, Soft-footed as the snow,

Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep!

BALLADE OF HIS CHOICE OF A SEPULCHRE

Here I'd come when weariest !

Here the breast

Of the Windburg's tufted over

Deep with bracken; here his crest

Takes the west,

Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover.

Silent here are lark and plover;

In the cover

Deep below the cushat best

Loves his mate, and croons above her

O'er their nest,

Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover.

Bring me here, Life's tired-out guest,

To the blest

Bed that waits the weary rover,

Here should failure be confessed;

Ends my quest,

Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover!

ENVOY

Friend, or stranger kind, or lover,

Ah, fulfil a last behest,

Let me rest

Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover!

NATURAL THEOLOGY

ἐπεὶ καὶ τοῦτον δΐομαι ἀθανάτοισιν εὔχεσθαι· Πάντες δὲ θεῶν χατέουσ' ἄνθρωποι.

Od. iii. 47.

"Once CAGN was like a father, kind and good,

But He was spoiled by fighting many things; He wars upon the lions in the wood,

And breaks the Thunder-bird's tremendous wings;
But still we cry to Him,- We are thy brood—
O Cagn, be merciful! and us He brings
To herds of elands, and great store of food,
And in the desert opens water-springs."

So Qing, King Nqsha's Bushman hunter, spoke
Beside the camp-fire, by the fountain fair,
When all were weary, and soft clouds of smoke
Were fading, fragrant, in the twilit air:
And suddenly in each man's heart there woke
A pang, a sacred memory of prayer.

EDMUND GOSSE

Born 1849

LYING IN THE GRASS

Between two golden tufts of summer grass,
I see the world through hot air as through glass,
And by my face sweet lights and colours pass.

Before me, dark against the fading sky,
I watch three mowers mowing, as I lie:
With brawny arms they sweep in harmony.

Brown English faces by the sun burnt red,
Rich glowing colour on bare throat and head,
My heart would leap to watch them, were I dead!

And in my strong young living as I lie,

I seem to move with them in harmony,-
A fourth is mowing, and that fourth am I.

The music of the scythes that glide and leap,
The young men whistling as their great arms sweep,
And all the perfume and sweet sense of sleep,

The weary butterflies that droop their wings,
The dreamy nightingale that hardly sings,
And all the lassitude of happy things,

Is mingling with the warm and pulsing blood
That gushes through my veins a languid flood,
And feeds my spirit as the sap a bud.

Behind the mowers, on the amber air,
A dark-green beech wood rises, still and fair,
A white path winding up it like a stair.

And see that girl, with pitcher on her head,
And clean white apron on her gown of red,-
Her even-song of love is but half-said:

She waits the youngest mower. Now he goes;
Her cheeks are redder than the wild blush-rose:
They climb up where the deepest shadows close.

But though they pass, and vanish, I am there.
I watch his rough hands meet beneath her hair,
Their broken speech sounds sweet to me like prayer.

Ah! now the rosy children come to play,
And romp and struggle with the new-mown hay;
Their clear high voices sound from far away.