POETRY.
DUSK.
WHEN the daylight fades, and the moths flutter over the phloxes,
And the bats come from secret places, and wheel round the elm-trees, This way and that, jerking and diving in silence, Then in the cool of the day I walk in the garden, Thinking of next day's task or it may be of nothing, Watching the lights appear in the houses around me, Or in the streets below or beyond on the hillside.
Sometimes the blinds are drawn with a snap and a gesture, Screening the hearth from the eye of the curious passer, And sometimes the light shines out, as if bravely proclaiming That neither treason nor mischief is hatched in this dwelling. And as I look all around at the lights in the windows, Dumbly my spirit pleads at each house for admission, Like a moth vainly beating the pane in meaningless envy.
And I lose my way in imaginings idle and baseless, Asking myself of what drama each light is a witness, Of love and regret, of hatred, of sorrow and meanness, Of striving and toil, of weariness never far distant.
Here, I say to myself, in this room are two lovers Wondering still at love, and warm in love's laughter, With bantering speech dissembling the love that consumes them.
And there, it may be, are twain whom the years have tor• mented, Fretting now in each other's presence, and knowing The music of love changed into harshest discordance,
And awaiting, although unconfessed, the great Reconciler To bring an uneasy peace—alas, for one only I
And here, I say, is one who lives for to-morrow, Deaf to the world and the intercessions of pleasure, With eyes intent on the distant summits of glory ; And there is one whose days are spent in remembrance, Cherishing, unsuspected, the words once spoken By a child or a lover whose name is buried for ever.
And there may be one who lives, if life you would call it, But whose soul has been choked by the cares of the things
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