work, waiting and longing for love.  There will she be, as of old, when the great moon hung above, And lightless and dead was the village, and nought but the weir was awake; There will she rise to meet me, and my hands will she hasten to take, And thence shall we wander away, and over the ancient bridge By many a rose-hung hedgerow, till we reach the sun-burnt ridge And the great trench digged by the Romans:  there then awhile shall we stand, To watch the dawn come creeping o’er the fragrant lovely land, Till all the world awaketh, and draws us down, we twain, To the deeds of the field and the fold and the merry summer’s gain.

Ah thus, only thus shall I see her, in dreams of the day or the night, When my soul is beguiled of its sorrow to remember past delight.  She is gone.  She was and she is not; there is no such thing on the earth But e’en as a picture painted; and for me there is void and dearth That I cannot name or measure.  Yet for me and all these she died, E’en as she lived for awhile, that the better day might betide.  Therefore I live, and I shall live till the last day’s work shall fail.  Have patience now but a little and I will tell you the tale Of how and why she died, And why I am weak and worn, And have wandered away to the meadows and the place where I was born; But here and to-day I cannot; for ever my thought will stray To that hope fulfilled for a little and the bliss of the earlier day.  Of the great world’s hope and anguish to-day I scarce can think; Like a ghost, from the lives of the living and their earthly deeds I shrink.  I will go adown by the water and over the ancient bridge, And wend in our footsteps of old till I come to the sun-burnt ridge, And the great trench digged by the Romans; and thence awhile will I gaze, And see three teeming counties stretch out till they fade in the haze; And in all the dwellings of man that thence mine eyes shall see, What man as hapless as I am beneath the sun shall be?

O fool, what words are these?  Thou hast a sorrow to nurse, And thou hast been bold and happy; but these, if they utter a curse, No sting it has and no meaning, it is empty sound on the air.  Thy life is full of mourning, and theirs so empty and bare, That they have no words of complaining; nor so happy have they been That they may measure sorrow or tell what grief may mean.

And thou; thou hast deeds to do, and toil to meet thee soon; Depart and ponder on these through the sun-worn afternoon.

MINE AND THINE

FROM A FLEMISH POEM OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY

Two words about the world we see,
And nought but Mine and Thine they be. 
Ah! might we drive them forth and wide
With us should rest and peace abide;
All free, nought owned of goods and gear,
By men and women though it were. 
Common to all all wheat and wine
Over the seas and up the Rhine. 
No manslayer then the wide world o’er