Till once again the Witch’s guile entreat him;
  But, worn with wisdom, he
Steadfast and cold shall choose the dark night’s
  Inhospitality.

HAUNTED

The rabbit in his burrow keeps
No guarded watch, in peace he sleeps;
The wolf that howls in challenging night
Cowers to her lair at morning light;
The simplest bird entwines a nest
Where she may lean her lovely breast,
Couched in the silence of the bough. 
But thou, O man, what rest hast thou?

Thy emptiest solitude can bring
Only a subtler questioning
In thy divided heart.  Thy bed
Recalls at dawn what midnight said. 
Seek how thou wilt to feign content,
Thy flaming ardour’s quickly spent;
Soon thy last company is gone,
And leaves thee—­with thyself—­alone.

Pomp and great friends may hem thee round,
A thousand busy tasks be found;
Earth’s thronging beauties may beguile
Thy longing lovesick heart awhile;
And pride, like clouds of sunset, spread
A changing glory round thy head;
But fade will all; and thou must come,
Hating thy journey, homeless, home.

Rave how thou wilt; unmoved, remote,
That inward presence slumbers not,
Frets out each secret from thy breast,
Gives thee no rally, pause, nor rest,
Scans close thy very thoughts, lest they
Should sap his patient power away,
Answers thy wrath with peace, thy cry
With tenderest taciturnity.

SILENCE

With changeful sound life beats upon the ear;
  Yet, striving for release,
  The most seductive string’s
    Sweet jargonings,
    The happiest throat’s
  Most easeful, lovely notes
Fall back into a veiling silentness.

Even ’mid the rumour of a moving host,
  Blackening the clear green earth,
  Vainly ’gainst that thin wall
    The trumpets call,
    Or with loud hum
  The smoke-bemuffled drum: 
From that high quietness no reply comes forth.

When, all at peace, two friends at ease alone
  Talk out their hearts,—­yet still
  Between the grace-notes of
    The voice of love
    From each to each
  Trembles a rarer speech,
And with its presence every pause doth fill.

Unmoved it broods, this all-encompassing hush
  Of one who stooping near,
  No smallest stir will make
    Our fear to wake;
    But yet intent
  Upon some mystery bent
  Harkens the lightest word we say, or hear.

WINTER DUSK

Dark frost was in the air without,
  The dusk was still with cold and gloom,
When less than even a shadow came
    And stood within the room.

But of the three around the fire,
  None turned a questioning head to look,
Still read a clear voice, on and on,
    Still stooped they o’er their book.