Huntsman, huntsman, whither away? 
What is the quarry afoot to-day? 
Huntsman, huntsman, whither away,
  And what the game ye kill? 
Is it the deer, that men may dine? 
Is it the wolf that tears the kine? 
What is the race ye ride, ye ride,
  Ye ride by moor and hill?

“Ask not yet till the day be dead
What is the game that’s forward fled,
Ask not yet till the day be dead
  The game we follow still. 
An echo it may be, floating past;
A shadow it may be, fading fast: 
Shadow or echo, we ride, we ride,
  We ride by moor and hill”

O Pulchritudo

O Saint whose thousand shrines our feet have trod
  And our eyes loved thy lamp’s eternal beam,
Dim earthly radiance of the Unknown God,
  Hope of the darkness, light of them that dream,
Far off, far off and faint, O glimmer on
Till we thy pilgrims from the road are gone.

O Word whose meaning every sense hath sought,
  Voice of the teeming field and grassy mound,
Deep-whispering fountain of the wells of thought,
  Will of the wind and soul of all sweet sound,
Far off, far off and faint, O murmur on
Till we thy pilgrims from the road are gone.

In July

His beauty bore no token,
  No sign our gladness shook;
With tender strength unbroken
  The hand of Life he took: 
But the summer flowers were falling,
  Falling and fading away,
And mother birds were calling,
    Crying and calling
  For their loves that would not stay.

He knew not Autumn’s chillness,
  Nor Winter’s wind nor Spring’s. 
He lived with Summer’s stillness
  And sun and sunlit things: 
But when the dusk was falling
  He went the shadowy way,
And one more heart is calling,
    Crying and calling
  For the love that would not stay.

From Generation To Generation

O Son of mine, when dusk shall find thee bending
  Between a gravestone and a cradle’s head—–­
Between the love whose name is loss unending
  And the young love whose thoughts are liker dread,—–­
Thou too shalt groan at heart that all thy spending
  Cannot repay the dead, the hungry dead.

When I Remember

When I remember that the day will come
  For this our love to quit his land of birth,
  And bid farewell to all the ways of earth
With lips that must for evermore be dumb,

Then creep I silent from the stirring hum,
  And shut away the music and the mirth,
  And reckon up what may be left of worth
When hearts are cold and love’s own body numb.

Something there must be that I know not here,
Or know too dimly through the symbol dear;
  Some touch, some beauty, only guessed by this—–­
If He that made us loves, it shall replace,
Beloved, even the vision of thy face
  And deep communion of thine inmost kiss.