The children watched their mother’s eyes
  Moving on softly line to line;
It seemed to listen too—­that shade,
    Yet made no outward sign.

The fire-flames crooned a tiny song,
  No cold wind moved the wintry tree;
The children both in Faerie dreamed
    Beside their mother’s knee.

And nearer yet that spirit drew
  Above that heedless one, intent
Only on what the simple words
    Of her small story meant.

No voiceless sorrow grieved her mind,
  No memory her bosom stirred,
Nor dreamed she, as she read to two,
    ’Twas surely three who heard.

Yet when, the story done, she smiled
  From face to face, serene and clear,
A love, half dread, sprang up, as she
    Leaned close and drew them near.

THE GHOST

      Peace in thy hands,
      Peace in thine eyes,
      Peace on thy brow;
Flower of a moment in the eternal hour,
      Peace with me now.

      Not a wave breaks,
      Not a bird calls,
      My heart, like a sea,
Silent after a storm that hath died,
      Sleeps within me.

      All the night’s dews,
      All the world’s leaves,
      All winter’s snow
Seem with their quiet to have stilled in life’s dream
      All sorrowing now.

AN EPITAPH

Here lies a most beautiful lady,
Light of step and heart was she;
I think she was the most beautiful lady
That ever was in the West Country. 
But beauty vanishes; beauty passes;
However rare—­rare it be;
And when I crumble, who will remember
This lady of the West Country?

“The Hawthorn hath A deathly smell”

The flowers of the field
  Have a sweet smell;
Meadowsweet, tansy, thyme,
  And faint-heart pimpernel;
But sweeter even than these,
  The silver of the may
Wreathed is with incense for
  The Judgment Day.

An apple, a child, dust,
  When falls the evening rain,
Wild brier’s spiced leaves,
  Breathe memories again;
With further memory fraught,
  The silver of the may
Wreathed is with incense for
  The Judgment Day.

Eyes of all loveliness—­
  Shadow of strange delight,
Even as a flower fades
  Must thou from sight;
But oh, o’er thy grave’s mound,
  Till come the Judgment Day,
Wreathed shall with incense he
  Thy sharp-thorned may.

* * * * *

MOTLEY:  1918

* * * * *

THE LITTLE SALAMANDER

TO MARGOT

When I go free,
I think ’twill be
A night of stars and snow,
And the wild fires of frost shall light
My footsteps as I go;
Nobody—­nobody will be there
With groping touch, or sight,
To see me in my bush of hair
Dance burning through the night.