And, as talebearers tell, thence on to her last-taken breath
Was unseen, save as wraith that in front of the brass made moan;
So that ever the way of her life and the time of her death
   Remained unknown.

And hence, as indited above, you may read even now
The quaint church-text, with the date of her death left bare,
In the aged Estminster aisle, where folk yet bow
   Themselves in prayer.

October 30, 1907.

THE MARBLE-STREETED TOWN

I reach the marble-streeted town,
   Whose “Sound” outbreathes its air
      Of sharp sea-salts;
I see the movement up and down
      As when she was there. 
Ships of all countries come and go,
   The bandsmen boom in the sun
      A throbbing waltz;
The schoolgirls laugh along the Hoe
      As when she was one.

I move away as the music rolls: 
   The place seems not to mind
      That she—­of old
The brightest of its native souls —
      Left it behind! 
Over this green aforedays she
   On light treads went and came,
      Yea, times untold;
Yet none here knows her history —
      Has heard her name.

Plymouth (1914?).

A WOMAN DRIVING

How she held up the horses’ heads,
   Firm-lipped, with steady rein,
Down that grim steep the coastguard treads,
   Till all was safe again!

With form erect and keen contour
   She passed against the sea,
And, dipping into the chine’s obscure,
   Was seen no more by me.

To others she appeared anew
   At times of dusky light,
But always, so they told, withdrew
   From close and curious sight.

Some said her silent wheels would roll
   Rutless on softest loam,
And even that her steeds’ footfall
   Sank not upon the foam.

Where drives she now?  It may be where
   No mortal horses are,
But in a chariot of the air
   Towards some radiant star.

A WOMAN’S TRUST

If he should live a thousand years
   He’d find it not again
   That scorn of him by men
Could less disturb a woman’s trust
In him as a steadfast star which must
Rise scathless from the nether spheres: 
If he should live a thousand years
   He’d find it not again.

She waited like a little child,
   Unchilled by damps of doubt,
   While from her eyes looked out
A confidence sublime as Spring’s
When stressed by Winter’s loiterings. 
Thus, howsoever the wicked wiled,
She waited like a little child
   Unchilled by damps of doubt.

Through cruel years and crueller
   Thus she believed in him
   And his aurore, so dim;
That, after fenweeds, flowers would blow;
And above all things did she show
Her faith in his good faith with her;
Through cruel years and crueller
   Thus she believed in him!