e morning ways that we went,
and how oft we had fed
And drunk with the sunset for lamp--my friend
who was dead;

Now never the draught at my lips would thrill
to my head--
For the last vintage ebbed in my heart; my
friend he was dead.

Then I spake unto God in my grief: My wine
and my bread
And my staff Thou hast taken from me--my
friend who is dead.

Are the heavens yet friendless to Thee, and
lone to Thy head,
That Thy desolate heart must have need of my
friend who is dead?

To God then I spake yet again: not Peter
instead
Would I take, nor Philip nor John, for my
friend who is dead.

_FOREST SONG_

All around I heard the whispering larches
Swinging to the low-lipped wind;
God, they piped, is lilting in our arches,
For He loveth leafen kind.

Ferns I heard, unfolding from their slumber,
Say confiding to the reed:
God well knoweth us, Who loves to number
Us and all our fairy seed.

Voices hummed as of a multitude
Crowding from their lowly sod;
'Twas the stricken daisies where I stood,
Crying to the daisies' God.

_THE BEE_

Away, the old monks said,
Sweet honey-fly,
From lilting overhead
The lullaby
You heard some mother croon
Beneath the harvest moon.
Go, hum it in the hive,
The old monks said,
For we were once alive
Who now are dead.

_OUTSIDE THE CARLTON_

The death of the grey withered grass
Of man's is a sign,
And his life is as wine
That is spilt from a half-shivered glass.
At a quarter to nine
Went Dives to dine ...
(Man, it is said, is as grass.)

Riches and plunder had met
To furnish his feast--
Both succulent beast
And fish from the fisherman's net;
While he tasteth of dishes
And all his soul wishes--
Nor knoweth his hour hath been set.

The death of the pale-sodden hay
'Neath the feet of the kine
Is to man for a sign;
At the striking of ten he was grey,
And they carried him out
Stiff-strangled with gout.
(Man, it is said, is as hay.)

_THE PATER OF THE CANNON_

Father of the thunder,
Flinger of the flame,
Searing stars asunder,
_Hallowed be Thy Name_!

By the sweet-sung quiring
Sister bullets hum,
By our fiercest firing,
_May Thy Kingdom come_!

By Thy strong apostle
Of the Maxim gun,
By his pentecostal
Flame, _Thy Will be done_!

Give us, Lord, good feeding
To Thy battles sped--Flesh,
white grained and bleeding,
_Give for daily bread_!

_