On sweetening air
The blackbird growing bold
Flings out, where green boughs glisten,
Three splashes of wild gold.

Daughter of April, hear;
And hear, O barefoot boy!
That carol of wild sweet water
Has washed the world with joy.

Glisten, O fragrant earth
Assoiled by heaven anew,
And O, ye lovers, listen,
With eyes that glisten, too.

THE DEATH OF A GREAT MAN

No--not that he is dead. The pang's not there,
Nor in the City's many-coloured bloom
Of swift black-lettered posters, which the throng
Passes with bovine stare,
To say _He is dead_ and _Is it going to rain?_
Or hum stray snatches of a rag-time song.
Nor is it in that falsest shibboleth
(Which orators toss to the dumb scorn of death)
That all the world stands weeping at his tomb.
London is dining, dancing, through it all.
And, in the unchecked smiles along the street
Where men, that slightly knew him, lightly meet,
With all the old indifferent grimaces,
There is no jot of grief, no tittle of pain.
No. No. For nearer things do most tears fall.
Grief is for near and little things. But pride,
O, pride was to be found by two or three,
And glory in his great battling memory,
Prouder and purer than the loud world knows,
In one more dreadful sign, the day he died--
The dreadful light upon a thousand faces,
The peace upon the faces of his foes.

THE ROMAN WAY

He that has loyally served the State
Whereof he found himself a part,
Or spent his life-blood to create
A kingdom's treasure in his art;

Who sees the enemies of his land
Applauded, by her sects and schools;
And the high thought they scarce had scanned
Derided and befogged by fools;

--Better to know it soon than late!--
Struggling, he wins a meed of praise;
Achieving, he is dogged by hate
And furtive malice all his days.

O, Emperor of the Stoic clan,
Enfold him, then, with nobler pride.
Teach him that nought can hurt a man
Who will not turn or stoop to chide.

Can falsehood kindle or bedim
One bay-leaf in his quiet crown?
Ten thousand Lies may pluck at him,
But only Truth can tear him down.

Why should he heed the thing they say?
They never asked if it were true.
Why brush one scribbler's tale away
For others to invent a new?

No, let him search his heart, secure
--If Truth be there--from to