Some sang to me dreaming in class-time,
And truant in hand as in tongue;
For the youngest were born of boy's pastime,
The eldest are young.

Is there shelter while life in them lingers,
Is there hearing for songs that recede,
Tunes touched from a harp with men's fingers
Or blown with boy's mouth in a reed?
Is there place in the land of your labor,
Is there room in your world of delight,
Where change has not sorrow for neighbor
And day has not night?

In their wings though the sea-wind yet quivers, Will you spare not a space for them there, Made green with the running of rivers

And gracious with temperate air;

In the fields and turreted cities,

That cover from sunshine and rain Fair passions and bountiful pities And loves without stain ?

Though the world of your hands be more gracious,
And lovelier in lordship of things

Clothed round by sweet art with the spacious
Warm heaven of her imminent wings,

Let them enter, unfledged and nigh fainting,
For the love of old loves and lost times;
And receive in your palace of painting
This revel of rhymes.

Though the seasons of man full of losses
Make empty the years full of youth,
If but one thing be constant in crosses,

Change lays not her hand upon truth;
Hopes die, and their tombs are for token
That the grief, as the joy, of them ends
Ere time that breaks all men has broken
The faith between friends.

Though the many lights dwindle to one light,
There is help if the heaven has one;
Though the skies be discrowned of the sunlight
And the earth dispossessed of the sun,
They have moonlight and sleep for repayment,
When, refreshed as a bride, and set free
With stars and sea-winds in her raiment,
Night sinks on the sea.

THE HOUNDS OF SPRING.

(From "Atalanta in Calydon.")

WHEN the Hounds of Spring are on Winter's traces, The mother of months in meadow or plain

Fills the shadows and windy places

With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain,

And the brown bright nightingale, amorous,
Is half assuaged for Itylus,

For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces;
The tongueless vigil and all the pain:

Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers, Maiden most perfect, Lady of Light,

With a noise of winds and many rivers,

With a clamor of waters, and with might;

Bind on thy sandals, O thou, most fleet,

Over the splendor and speed of thy feet!

For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers,

Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night.

Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her,
Fold our hands round her knees and cling?
Oh, that man's heart were fire and could spring to her
Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring!

For the stars and the winds are unto her

As raiments, as songs of the harp-player;

For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her,
And the southwest wind and the west wind sing.

For Winter's rains and ruins are over,

And all the season of snows and sins; The days dividing lover and lover,

The light that loses, the night that wins; And time remembered is grief forgotten, And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover

Blossom by blossom the Spring begins.

The full streams feed on flower of rushes,
Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot;
The faint, fresh flame of the young year flushes
From leaf to flower and flower to fruit;
And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire,
And the oat is heard above the lyre,
And the hoofed heel of a Satyr crushes
The chestnut-husk at the chestnut root.

With kisses glad as birds are
That get sweet rain at noon:
If I were what the words are,
And love were like the tune.

If you were life, my darling,
And I, your love, were death,
We'd shine and snow together
Ere March made sweet the weather
With daffodil and starling

And hours of fruitful breath:
If you were life, my darling,
And I, your love, were death.

If you were thrall to sorrow,
And I were page to joy,
We'd play for lives and seasons
With loving looks and treasons,
And tears of night and morrow,

And laughs of maid and boy:
If you were thrall to sorrow,
And I were page to joy.

If you were April's lady,

And I were lord in May,

We'd throw with leaves for hours
And draw for days with flowers,
Till day like night were shady

And night were bright like day:
If you were April's lady,
And I were lord in May.

If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain,
We'd hunt down love together,
Pluck out his flying-feather,
And teach his feet a measure,
And find his mouth a rein:
If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain.

ÉTUDE RÉALISTE.

I.

A BABY's feet, like sea-shells pink,

Might tempt, should Heaven see meet,

An angel's lips to kiss, we think,

A baby's feet.