“Our vivid spirits of love, unbroken moved
And lifted no more sense-confined, and roved
And knew till then we had not utterly loved ...

“Leave now this dust!”

And then the dust will sink,
The upheaved mound to its old shape will shrink,
And we shall turn again from Time’s dusk brink.

* * * * *

Will it be thus?  It will be thus.  Even now,
Though body to body submissively still bow,
’Tis not on body’s blood that our loves grow.

Though I am old and you are old, though nerves
Slacken, and beauty slowly lose its curves,
And greedy Time the bone and sinew starves,

Like some lean Captain gloating over a town
That has not fallen, but will fall, every stone
O’erthrust and every bravery overthrown;

Who entering the defeated walls at last
Finds emptiness, and hears an escaping blast,
Triumphant from the shining east hills cast,

And knows defeat in victory....  O that rare
Music is ours, is ours—­prelusive air
Caught from the Judgment music high and severe.

Will it indeed be thus?  Yes, thus!  The body burns,
Not with desire, and into pale smoke turns,
And there is only flame towards flame that yearns.

While that ill lecherous Time among the stones
Sits musing and rocking his old brittle bones,
Irked by long shadows, mocked by those bright far tones.

LIGHTING THE FIRE

You were a gipsy as you bent
Your dark hair over the black grate. 
Hardly the west light above the hill
Showed your shadow, crooked and still. 
The bellows hissed, and one bright spark
    Deepened the hasty dark.

The bellows hissed, and the old smell
Crept on the air of smoking peat,
And round the spark a bubbling flame
Grew bright and loud.  Sweeping the gloom
Lunatic shadows fled and came
    Whirling about the room.

Then as you raised your head I saw
In the clear light of the bubbling fire
Your dark hair all lined with the gray
Sprinkled by years and sorrow and pain ... 
Till as the bellows idle lay
    Shadow swept back again.

RECOVERY

Where are you going with eyes so dull,
You whose eyes were beautiful,
You whose hair with the light was gay,
And now is thin and harsh and gray? 
Is it age alone or age and tears
That has slowly rubbed your beauty away?

Where were you going when your swift eyes
Were like merry birds under May skies?—­
In your cheeks the colours fluttering brave
As you danced with the wind and ran with the wave. 
From what bright star was your brightness caught? 
What to your music the music gave?

Now is your beauty a thing of old,
The fire is sunken, the ashes cold. 
But if sweet singing on your ear stray,
Or the praise is uttered of yesterday,
Or of courage and nobleness one word said—­
Like a cloud Time’s ravage is brushed away.