Dapple the feast-hall floor;
There lie our dogs and dream and doze,
And we return no more. 
Down from the minster tower to-day
Fall the soft chimes of yore
Amidst the chattering jackdaws’ play: 
And we return no more. 
But underneath the streets are still;
Noon, and the market’s o’er! 
Back go the goodwives o’er the hill;
For we return no more. 
What merchant to our gates shall come? 
What wise man bring us lore? 
What abbot ride away to Rome,
Now we return no more?
What mayor shall rule the hall we built? 
Whose scarlet sweep the floor? 
What judge shall doom the robber’s guilt,
Now we return no more?
New houses in the street shall rise
Where builded we before,
Of other stone wrought otherwise;
For we return no more. 
And crops shall cover field and hill
Unlike what once they bore,
And all be done without our will,
Now we return no more. 
Look up! the arrows streak the sky,
The horns of battle roar;
The long spears lower and draw nigh,
And we return no more. 
Remember how beside the wain,
We spoke the word of war,
And sowed this harvest of the plain,
And we return no more. 
Lay spears about the Ruddy Fox! 
The days of old are o’er;
Heave sword about the Running Ox!
For we return no more.

HOPE DIETH:  LOVE LIVETH

Strong are thine arms, O love, and strong
Thine heart to live, and love, and long;
But thou art wed to grief and wrong: 
Live, then, and long, though hope be dead! 
Live on, and labour through the years! 
Make pictures through the mist of tears,
Of unforgotten happy fears,
That crossed the time ere hope was dead. 
Draw near the place where once we stood
Amid delight’s swift-rushing flood,
And we and all the world seemed good
Nor needed hope now cold and dead. 
Dream in the dawn I come to thee
Weeping for things that may not be! 
Dream that thou layest lips on me! 
Wake, wake to clasp hope’s body dead! 
Count o’er and o’er, and one by one,
The minutes of the happy sun
That while agone on kissed lips shone,
Count on, rest not, for hope is dead. 
Weep, though no hair’s breadth thou shalt move
The living Earth, the heaven above,
By all the bitterness of love! 
Weep and cease not, now hope is dead! 
Sighs rest thee not, tears bring no ease,
Life hath no joy, and Death no peace: 
The years change not, though they decrease,
For hope is dead, for hope is dead. 
Speak, love, I listen:  far away
I bless the tremulous lips, that say,
“Mock not the afternoon of day,
Mock not the tide when hope is dead!”
I bless thee, O my love, who say’st: 
“Mock not the thistle-cumbered waste;
I hold Love’s hand, and make no haste
Down the long way, now hope is dead.