This bears his missives of life and death
      With quickening breath,
   On whom the rain comes down.

One watches for signals of wreck or war
      From the hill afar,
   On whom the rain comes down.

No care if he gain a shelter or none,
      Unhired moves one,
   On whom the rain comes down.

And another knows nought of its chilling fall
      Upon him at all,
   On whom the rain comes down.

October 1904.

MEDITATIONS ON A HOLIDAY (A NEW THEME TO AN OLD FOLK-JINGLE)

’Tis May morning,
All-adorning,
No cloud warning
   Of rain to-day. 
Where shall I go to,
Go to, go to? —
Can I say No to
   Lyonnesse-way?

Well—­what reason
Now at this season
Is there for treason
   To other shrines? 
Tristram is not there,
Isolt forgot there,
New eras blot there
   Sought-for signs!

Stratford-on-Avon —
Poesy-paven —
I’ll find a haven
   There, somehow! —
Nay—­I’m but caught of
Dreams long thought of,
The Swan knows nought of
   His Avon now!

What shall it be, then,
I go to see, then,
Under the plea, then,
   Of votary? 
I’ll go to Lakeland,
Lakeland, Lakeland,
Certainly Lakeland
   Let it be.

But—­why to that place,
That place, that place,
Such a hard come-at place
   Need I fare? 
When its bard cheers no more,
Loves no more, fears no more,
Sees no more, hears no more
   Anything there!

Ah, there is Scotland,
Burns’s Scotland,
And Waverley’s.  To what land
   Better can I hie? —
Yet—­if no whit now
Feel those of it now —
Care not a bit now
   For it—­why I?

I’ll seek a town street,
Aye, a brick-brown street,
Quite a tumbledown street,
   Drawing no eyes. 
For a Mary dwelt there,
And a Percy felt there
Heart of him melt there,
   A Claire likewise.

Why incline to that city,
Such a city, that city,
Now a mud-bespat city! —
   Care the lovers who
Now live and walk there,
Sit there and talk there,
Buy there, or hawk there,
   Or wed, or woo?

Laughters in a volley
Greet so fond a folly
As nursing melancholy
   In this and that spot,
Which, with most endeavour,
Those can visit never,
But for ever and ever
   Will now know not!

If, on lawns Elysian,
With a broadened vision
And a faint derision
   Conscious be they,
How they might reprove me
That these fancies move me,
Think they ill behoove me,
   Smile, and say: 

“What!—­our hoar old houses,
Where the past dead-drowses,
Nor a child nor spouse is
   Of our name at all? 
Such abodes to care for,
Inquire about and bear for,
And suffer wear and tear for —
   How weak of you and small!”