I never get between the pines
    But I smell the Sussex air;
  Nor I never come on a belt of sand
    But my home is there. 
  And along the sky the line of the Downs
    So noble and so bare.

  A lost thing could I never find,
    Nor a broken thing mend: 
  And I fear I shall be all alone
    When I get towards the end. 
  Who will there be to comfort me,
    Or who will be my friend?

  I will gather and carefully make my friends
    Of the men of the Sussex Weald,
  They watch the stars from silent folds,
    They stiffly plough the field. 
  By them and the God of the South Country
    My poor soul shall be healed.

  If ever I become a rich man,
    Or if ever I grow to be old,
  I will build a house with deep thatch
    To shelter me from the cold,
  And there shall the Sussex songs be sung
    And the story of Sussex told.

  I will hold my house in the high wood
    Within a walk of the sea,
  And the men that were boys when I was a boy
    Shall sit and drink with me.

ARAB LOVE-SONG
[Sidenote:  Francis Thompson]

  The hunched camels of the night[11]
  Trouble the bright
  And silver waters of the moon. 
  The Maiden of the Morn will soon
  Through Heaven stray and sing,
  Star gathering.

  Now while the dark about our loves is strewn,
  Light of my dark, blood of my heart, O come! 
  And night will catch her breath up, and be dumb.

  Leave thy father, leave thy mother
  And thy brother;
  Leave the black tents of thy tribe apart! 
  Am I not thy father and thy brother,
  And thy mother? 
  And thou—­what needest with thy tribe’s black tents
  Who hast the red pavilion of my heart?

OUT OF THE MOUTH OF BABES
[Sidenote:  Wilfrid Maynell]

  As high up in a house as a nest
          In a tree,
  They have gone for the night to their rest,
          The Babes three.

  One will say, when they wake, with arms crossed,
          “Jesus blest!”
  One will cry “Mother mine”—­and be lost
          In that breast.

  “Ta-ra-ra,” then the littlest maid saith,
          Two and gay;
  And loud laughs with the last of her breath,
          “Boom-de-ay!”

  What they say, in their nests, these dear birds,
          Is all even: 
  For their speech, be whatever their words,
          Is of Heaven.

THEIR BEST
[Sidenote:  Wilfrid Maynell]

  She is a very simple maid—­
      Nicknamed a “tweeny”;
  The cook’s and housemaid’s riven aid,
      Christ-named Irene. 
  And when, in lower regions, she
      Hears hurled request,
  She laughs or cries:  “Oh, right you be,
      I’ll do my best.”

  Her very best, be very sure! 
      She holds it fast—­
  Religion undefiled and pure. 
      And, at the last,
  When Life, from this sad house of her,
      Flits like a guest,
  She’ll curtsy to the Judge:  “O Sir,
      I did my best.”