Gone! they have called our shepherd from the hill,
  Passed is the sunny sadness of his song,
    That song which sang of sight and yet was brave
  To lay the ghosts of seeing, subtly strong
    To wean from tears and from the troughs to save;
And who shall teach us now that he is still!

‘TENNYSON’ AT THE FARM

(TO L. AND H.H.)

O you that dwell ’mid farm and fold,
  Yet keep so quick undulled a heart,
I send you here that book of gold,
  So loved so long;
The fairest art,
  The sweetest English song.

And often in the far-off town,
  When summer sits with open door,
I’ll dream I see you set it down
  Beside the churn,

Whose round shall slacken more and more,
  Till you forget to turn.

And I shall smile that you forget,
  And Dad will scold—­but never mind! 
Butter is good, but better yet,
  Think such as we,
To leave the farm and fold behind,
  And follow such as he.

‘THE DESK’S DRY WOOD’

(TO JAMES WELCH)

Dear Desk, Farewell!  I spoke you oft
In phrases neither sweet nor soft,
But at the end I come to see
That thou a friend hast been to me,
  No flatterer but very friend. 
For who shall teach so well again
The blessed lesson-book of pain,
The truth that souls that would aspire
Must bravely face the scourge and fire,
  If they would conquer in the end? 
Two days! 
Shall I not hug thee very close? 
Two days,
And then we part upon our ways. 
Ah me! 
Who shall possess thee after me? 
O pray he be no enemy to poesy,
To gentle maid or gentle dream.

How have we dreamed together, I and thou,
Sweet dreams that like some incense wrapt us round
The last new book, the last new love,
The last new trysting-ground. 
How many queens have ruled and passed
Since first we met; how thick and fast
The letters used to come at first, how thin at last;
Then ceased, and winter for a space! 
Until another hand
Brought spring into the land,
And went the seasons’ pace.

And now, Dear Desk, thou knowest for how long time
I have no queen but song: 
Yea, thou hast seen the last love fade, and now
Behold the last of many a secret rhyme!

A LIBRARY IN A GARDEN

’A Library in a garden!  The phrase seems to contain the whole felicity of man.’—­Mr. EDMUND GOSSE in Gossip in a Library.

A world of books amid a world of green,
Sweet song without, sweet song again within
Flowers in the garden, in the folios too: 
O happy Bookman, let me live with you!

ON THE MORALS OF POETS

One says he is immoral, and points out
  Warm sin in ruddy specks upon his soul: 
Bigot, one folly of the man you flout
  Is more to God than thy lean life is whole.