Strike the bells solemnly,
  Ding dong deep: 
My friend is passing to his bed,
  Fast asleep;
There’s plaited linen round his head, 20
  While foremost go his feet—­
His feet that cannot carry him. 
My feast’s a show, my lights are dim;
  Be still, your music is not sweet,—­
There is no music more for him: 
  His lights are out, his feast is done;
His bowl that sparkled to the brim
Is drained, is broken, cannot hold;
My blood is chill, his blood is cold;
  His death is full, and mine begun. 30

FATA MORGANA

A blue-eyed phantom far before
  Is laughing, leaping toward the sun: 
Like lead I chase it evermore,
  I pant and run.

It breaks the sunlight bound on bound: 
  Goes singing as it leaps along
To sheep-bells with a dreamy sound
  A dreamy song.

I laugh, it is so brisk and gay;
  It is so far before, I weep:  10
I hope I shall lie down some day,
  Lie down and sleep.

‘No, thank you, John’

I never said I loved you, John: 
  Why will you tease me day by day,
And wax a weariness to think upon
  With always ‘do’ and ‘pray’?

You know I never loved you, John;
  No fault of mine made me your toast: 
Why will you haunt me with a face as wan
  As shows an hour-old ghost?

I dare say Meg or Moll would take
  Pity upon you, if you’d ask:  10
And pray don’t remain single for my sake
  Who can’t perform that task.

I have no heart?—­Perhaps I have not;
  But then you’re mad to take offence
That I don’t give you what I have not got: 
  Use your own common sense.

Let bygones be bygones: 
  Don’t call me false, who owed not to be true: 
I’d rather answer ‘No’ to fifty Johns
  Than answer ‘Yes’ to you. 20

Let’s mar our pleasant days no more,
  Song-birds of passage, days of youth: 
Catch at to-day, forget the days before: 
  I’ll wink at your untruth.

Let us strike hands as hearty friends;
  No more, no less; and friendship’s good: 
Only don’t keep in view ulterior ends,
  And points not understood

In open treaty.  Rise above
  Quibbles and shuffling off and on:  30
Here’s friendship for you if you like; but love,—­
  No, thank you, John.

MAY

I cannot tell you how it was;
But this I know:  it came to pass
Upon a bright and breezy day
When May was young; ah, pleasant May! 
As yet the poppies were not born
Between the blades of tender corn;
The last eggs had not hatched as yet,
Nor any bird forgone its mate.