Not a dream brush your sleep,
Not a thought wake and creep
In upon your spirit’s slumber;
Not a memory encumber,
Nor a thievish care unbar
Sleep’s portcullis that no star
Nor sentry hath.  I’ll not speak
With my soul even:  no, nor seek
Other happiness for you
When you this happy sleep sleep through. 
Let no least desire waver
Between us, nor impatience quaver;
No sudden nearness of me flush
Your veins with welcome....  Hush, hush! 
Be still, my thoughts, lest you creep
Unawares into her sleep.

YOUR SHADOW

From Swindon out to White Horse Hill
   I walked, in morning rain,
And saw your shadow lying there. 
  As clear and plain
As lies the White Horse on the Hill
I saw your shadow lying there.

Over the wide green downs and bleak,
  Unthinking, free I walked,
And saw your shadow fluttering by. 
  Almost it talked,
Answering what I dared not speak
While thoughts of you ran fluttering by....

So on to Baydon sauntered, teased
  With that pure native air. 
Sometimes the sweetness of wild thyme
  The strings of care
Did pluck; sometimes my soul was eased
With more than sweetness of wild thyme.

Sometimes within a pool I caught
  Your face, upturned to mine. 
And where sits Chilton by the waters
  Your look did shine
Wildly in the mill foam that sought
To hide you in those angry waters.

And yet, O Sweet, you never knew
  Those downs, the thymy air
That with your spirit haunted is—­
  Yes, everywhere! 
Ah, but my heart is full of you,
And with your shadow haunted is.

THE FULL TIDE

Now speaks the wave, whispering me of you;
In all his murmur your music murmurs too. 
O ’tis your voice, my love, whispering in
The wave’s voice, even your voice so far and thin;
And mine to yours answering clear is heard
In the high lonely voice of the last bird.

And when, my love, the full tide runneth again,
Shall yet the seabird call, call, call in vain? 
Will not the tide wake in my heart and stir
The old rich happiness that’s sunken there? 
Thou moon of love, bid the retreated tide
Return, for which the wandering bird has cried.

HANDS

Your hands, your hands,
Fall upon mine as waves upon the sands. 
O, soft as moonlight on the evening rose,
That but to moonlight will its sweet unclose,
Your hands, your hands,
Fall upon mine, and my hands open as
That evening primrose opens when the hot hours pass.

Your hands, your hands,
They are like towers that in far southern lands
Look at pale dawn over gloom-valley’d miles,
White temple towers that gleam through mist at whiles. 
Your hands, your hands,
With the south wind fall kissing on my brow,
And all past joy and future is summed in this great “Now!”