The tall ship moved how slowly on
  With me and hundreds more,
That thought not then of wanderings,
But of unwhispered, longed-for things,
  Familiar things of home.

For not in miles seemed other lands
  Far off, but in long years
As we came near to England then;
Even the tall ship heard secret things
  As she moved trembling home.

It was at dawn.  The chattering ship
  Was strangely hushed; faint mist
Crept everywhere, and we crept on,
And every eye was creeping on
  The mist, as we moved home....

Until we saw, far, very far,
  Or dreamed we saw, her cliffs,
And thought of sweet, intolerable things,
Of England—­dark, unwhispered things,
  Such things, as we crept home.

ENGLAND’S ENEMY

She stands like one with mazy cares distraught. 
Around her sudden angry storm-clouds rise,
Dark, dark! and comes the look into her eyes
Of eld.  All that herself herself hath taught
She cons anew, that courage new be caught
Of courage old.  Yet comfortless still lies
Snake-like in her warm bosom (vexed with sighs)
Fear of the greatness that herself hath wrought.

No glory but her memory teems with it,
No beauty that’s not hers; more nobly none
Of all her sisters runs with her; but she
For her old destiny dreams herself unfit,
And fumbling at the future doubtfully
Muses how Rome of Romans was undone.

FROM PICCADILLY IN AUGUST

Now the trees rest:  the moon has taught them sleep,
Like drowsy wings of bats are all their leaves,
Clinging together.  Girls at ease who fold
Fair hands upon white necks and through dusk fields
Walk all content,—­of them the trees have taken
Their way of evening rest; the yellow moon
With her pale gold has lit their dreams that lisp
On the wind’s murmuring lips. 
                        And low beyond
Burn those bright lamps beneath the moon more bright,
Lamps that but flash and sparkle and light not
The inward eye and musing thought, nor reach
Where, poplar-like, that tall-built campanile
Lifts to the neighbouring moon her head and feels
The pale gold like an ocean laving her.

EVENING BEAUTY:  BLACKFRIARS

  Nought is but beauty weareth, near and far,
  Under the pale, blue sky and lonely star. 
  This is that quick hour when the city turns
  Her troubled harsh distortion and blind care
  Into brief loveliness seen everywhere,
While in the fuming west the low sun smouldering burns.

  Not brick nor marble the rich beauty owns,
  Not this is held in starward-pointing stones. 
  Sun, wind and smoke the threefold magic stir,
  Kissing each favourless poor ruin with kiss
  Like that when lovers lovers lure to bliss,
And earth than towered heaven awhile is heavenlier.