In my heart, when out of dreams
I still in the thin clear mirk of dawn
Descry her gliding streams;
Hear her strange lutes on the green banks
Ring loud with the grief and delight
Of the dim-silked, dark-haired musicians,
In the brooding silence of night.

They haunt me--her lutes and her forests;
No beauty on earth I see
But shadowed with that dream recalls
Her loveliness to me:
Still eyes look coldly upon me,
Cold voices whisper and say--
"He is crazed with the spell of far Arabia,
They have stolen his wits away."

NOD

Softly along the road of evening,
In a twilight dim with rose,
Wrinkled with age and drenched with dew,
Old Nod, the shepherd, goes.

His drowsy flock streams on before him,
Their fleeces charged with gold,
To where the sun's last beam leans low
On Nod the shepherd's fold.

The hedge is quick and green with briar,
From their sand the conies creep;
And all the birds that fly in heaven
Flock singing home to sleep.

His lambs outnumber a noon's roses
Yet, when night's shadows fall,
His blind old sheep dog, Slumber-soon,
Misses not one of all.

His are the quiet steeps of dreamland,
The waters of no more pain,
His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars,
"Rest, rest, and rest again."

JOHN GALSWORTHY

THE DOWNS.

Oh! the downs high to the cool sky;
And the feel of the sun-warmed moss;
And each cardoon, like a full moon,
Fairy-spun of the thistle floss;
And the beech grove, and a wood dove,
And the trail where the shepherds pass;
And the lark's song, and the wind-song,
And the scent of the parching grass!

THE PRAYER.

If on a Spring night I went by
And God were standing there,
What is the prayer that I would cry
To Him? This is the prayer:
O Lord of Courage grave,
O Master of this night of Spring!
Make firm in me a heart too brave
To ask Thee anything!

DEVON TO ME.

Where my fathers stood, watching the sea,
Gale-spent herring boats hugging the lea;
There my Mother lives, moorland and tree.
Sight o' the blossoms! Devon to me!

Where my fathers walked, driving the plough;
Whistled their hearts out--who whistles now?--
There my Mother burns fire faggots free.
Scent o' the wood-smoke! Devon to me!

Where my fathers sat, passing their bowls;
--They've no cider now, God rest their souls!
There my Mother feeds red cattle three.
Sup o' the cream-pan! Devon to me!

Where my fathers sleep, turning to dust,
This old body