r own,

And always there was silence at the end,
For something that beguiled us with the thought
Of presences returning, friend to friend.
Seeking again the fellowship they sought,
Pleased that we sing old songs they still may know,
Who sang with us, or listened, long ago.

SYMBOL

My faith is all a doubtful thing,
Wove on a doubtful loom,--
Until there comes, each showery Spring,
A cherry-tree in bloom;

And Christ who died upon a tree
That death had stricken bare,
Comes beautifully back to me,
In blossoms, everywhere.

TO AN UNKNOWN ANCESTOR

Among the goodly folk whose name I bear,
Men of the plough, the priesthood, and the mill,
Whose whispered wisdom follows where I fare,
With ghostly promptings that must haunt me still,--
What place was there for you, whose different fame
Delighted, once, the Don Juans of the town?
The family annals have forgot your name,
And time at last has hushed your gay renown.

But often in the chamber of my mind,
The righteous rise and leave, their counsels done,
And there is counsel of another kind,--
The room turns tavern, and there enters one
I pledge as kinsman in a reeling toast,
Still unregenerate and delightful ghost.

INTIMATION

Here where the sunlight makes more strangely fair
Each shining street, each steeple where it stands,
Something like Spring is blowing down the air,
Touching the Town with light, transforming hands.
Half-shy and hesitant, a Something stays
One trembling instant where the sun is sweet,--
A quickening presence on these winter ways,
Haunting and swift--and gone on shining feet.

Yet, there was hint of coming daffodils,
And slender spears uprising on the lawn,
And apple-blossoms on the April hills ...
Only the timid prophetess was gone,
Leaving a faith as gallant as the grass,
How that these things would surely come to pass.

ON A DEAD MOTH

Who knows what trouble trembled in that throat,
What sweet distraction for the summer moon,
That lured you out, a frail, careering boat,
Across the midnight's purple, deep lagoon!
Some fire of madness lit that tiny brain,
Some soft propulsion clouded through your breast,
And lifted you, a white and moving stain
Against the dark of that disastrous quest.

The sadness of