A poet of one mood in all my lays,
   Ranging all life to sing one only love,
   Like a west wind across the world I move,
Sweeping my harp of floods mine own wild ways.

The countries change, but not the west-wind days
   Which are my songs.  My soft skies shine above,
   And on all seas the colours of a dove,
And on all fields a flash of silver greys.

I make the whole world answer to my art
   And sweet monotonous meanings.  In your ears
I change not ever, bearing, for my part,
   One thought that is the treasure of my years,
A small cloud full of rain upon my heart
   And in mine arms, clasped, like a child in tears.

AN UNMARKED FESTIVAL

There’s a feast undated yet: 
   Both our true lives hold it fast,—­
The first day we ever met. 
   What a great day came and passed! 
   —­Unknown then, but known at last.

And we met:  You knew not me,
   Mistress of your joys and fears;
Held my hands that held the key
   Of the treasure of your years,
   Of the fountain of your tears.

For you knew not it was I,
    And I knew not it was you. 
We have learnt, as days went by. 
    But a flower struck root and grew
    Underground, and no one knew.

Days of days!  Unmarked it rose,
   In whose hours we were to meet;
And forgotten passed.  Who knows,
   Was earth cold or sunny, Sweet,
   At the coming of your feet?

One mere day, we thought; the measure
   Of such days the year fulfils. 
Now, how dearly would we treasure
   Something from its fields, its rills,
   And its memorable hills;

—­But one leaf of oak or lime,
    Or one blossom from its bowers
No one gathered at the time. 
    Oh, to keep that day of ours
   By one relic of its flowers!

SONNET—­THE NEOPHYTE

Who knows what days I answer for to-day: 
   Giving the bud I give the flower.  I bow
   This yet unfaded and a faded brow;
Bending these knees and feeble knees, I pray.

Thoughts yet unripe in me I bend one way,
   Give one repose to pain I know not now,
   One leaven to joy that comes, I guess not how. 
I dedicate my fields when Spring is grey.

Oh, rash! (I smile) to pledge my hidden wheat. 
   I fold to-day at altars far apart
Hands trembling with what toils?  In their retreat
   I seal my love to-be, my folded art. 
I light the tapers at my head and feet,
   And lay the crucifix on this silent heart.

SONNET—­SPRING ON THE ALBAN HILLS

O’er the Campagna it is dim warm weather;
   The Spring comes with a full heart silently,
   And many thoughts; a faint flash of the sea
Divides two mists; straight falls the falling feather.