“Open!” Across the room I falter,
And near the door crouch by the wall;
  Thrice bolt the door as the voice mutters
“Open!” and frail strokes fall.

“Open!” The light’s out, and I shrink
Quaking and blind against the wall;
  “Open!” no sound is, yet it mutters
Within me now, this night of all.

Was it the wind that stirred the trees,
Was it the trees that scratched the wall,
  Was it the wall that shook and muttered. 
Or Love’s last, ghostly call?

THE SHADE

I saw him as he went
With merry voice and eye.

I met him when he came
Back, tired but the same—­
The same clear voice, bright eye,
Merry laugh, quick reply.

And now, if I but look
Unnoting at a book,
Or from the window stare
At dark woods newly bare,
I see that shining eye,
The same as when he went: 

—­But whose is the low sigh,
The cold shade o’er me bent?

HAPPY IS ENGLAND NOW

There is not anything more wonderful
Than a great people moving towards the deep
Of an unguessed and unfeared future; nor
Is aught so dear of all held dear before
As the new passion stirring in their veins
When the destroying Dragon wakes from sleep.

Happy is England now, as never yet! 
And though the sorrows of the slow days fret
Her faithfullest children, grief itself is proud. 
Ev’n the warm beauty of this spring and summer
That turns to bitterness turns then to gladness
Since for this England the beloved ones died.

Happy is England in the brave that die
For wrongs not hers and wrongs so sternly hers;
Happy in those that give, give, and endure
The pain that never the new years may cure;
Happy in all her dark woods, green fields, towns,
Her hills and rivers and her chafing sea.

Whate’er was dear before is dearer now. 
There’s not a bird singing upon his bough
But sings the sweeter in our English ears: 
There’s not a nobleness of heart, hand, brain
But shines the purer; happiest is England now
In those that fight, and watch with pride and tears.

THE STARS IN THEIR COURSES

And now, while the dark vast earth shakes and rocks
In this wild dream-like snare of mortal shocks,
How look (I muse) those cold and solitary stars
On these magnificent, cruel wars?—­
Venus, that brushes with her shining lips
(Surely!) the wakeful edge of the world and mocks
With hers its all ungentle wantonness?—­
Or the large moon (pricked by the spars of ships
Creeping and creeping in their restlessness),
The moon pouring strange light on things more strange,
Looks she unheedfully on seas and lands
Trembling with change and fear of counterchange?