'Twas a year ago and the moon was bright
  (Oh, I remember so well, so well),
I walked with my love in a sea of light,
  And the voice of my sweet was a silver bell.

    And sudden the moon grew strangely dull,
      And sudden my love had taken wing;
    I looked on the face of a grinning skull,
      I strained to my heart a ghastly thing.

'Twas but fantasy, for my love lay still
  In my arms with her tender eyes aglow,
And she wondered why my lips were chill,
  Why I was silent and kissed her so.

    A year has gone and the moon is bright,
      A gibbous moon like a ghost of woe;
    I sit by a new-made grave to-night,
      And my heart is broken--it's strange, you know.

JESUS sitting among his playmates, crowned with
flowers as their King.

  Boys. We spread our garments on the ground'
With fragrant flowers thy head is crowned,
While like a guard we stand around,
  And hail thee as our King!
Thou art the new King of the Jews!
Nor let the passers-by refuse
To bring that homage which men use
  To majesty to bring.

          (Here a traveller shall go by, and the boys shall lay
              hold of his garments and say:)

  Boys. Come hither! and all reverence pay
Unto our monarch, crowned to-day!
Then go rejoicing on your way,
  In all prosperity!

  Traveller. Hail to the King of Bethlehem,
Who weareth in his diadem
The yellow crocus for the gem
  Of his authority!

          (He passes by; and others come in, bearing on a litter
              a sick child.)

  Boys. Set down the litter and draw near!
The King of Bethlehem is here!
What ails the child, who seems to fear
  That we shall do him harm?

  The Bearers. He climbed up to the robin's nest,
And out there darted, from his rest,
A serpent with a crimson crest,
  And stung him in the arm.

  Jesus. Bring him to me, and let me feel
The wounded place; my touch can heal
The sting of serpents, and can steal
  The poison from the bite!

          (He touches the wound, and the boy begins to cry.)

Cease to lament! I can foresee
That thou hereafter known shalt be,
Among the men who follow me,
  As Simon the Canaanite!

          *          *          *          *          *

                             EPILOGUE.

In the after part of the day
Will be represented another play,
Of the Passion of our Blessed Lord,
Beginning directly after Nones!
At the close of which we shall accord,
By way of benison and reward,
The sight of a holy Martyr's bones!

(For My Mother)

 The halls that were loud with the merry tread of young and careless feet
  Are still with a stillness that is too drear to seem like holiday,
 And never a gust of laughter breaks the calm of the dreaming street
  Or rises to shake the ivied walls and frighten the doves away.

 The dust is on book and on empty desk, and the tennis-racquet and balls
  Lie still in their lonely locker and wait for a game that is never played,
 And over the study and lecture-room and the river and meadow falls
  A stern peace, a strange peace, a peace that War has made.

 For many a youthful shoulder now is gay with an epaulet,
  And the hand that was deft with a cricket-bat is defter with a sword,
 And some of the lads will laugh to-day where the trench is red and wet,
  And some will win on the bloody field the accolade of the Lord.

 They have taken their youth and mirth away
   from the study and playing-ground
  To a new school in an alien land beneath an alien sky;
 Out in the smoke and roar of the fight their lessons and games are found,
  And they who were learning how to live are learning how to die.

 And after the golden day has come and the war is at an end,
  A slab of bronze on the chapel wall will tell of the noble dead.
 And every name on that radiant list will be the name of a friend,
  A name that shall through the centuries in grateful prayers be said.

 And there will be ghosts in the old school,
   brave ghosts with laughing eyes,
  On the field with a ghostly cricket-bat, by the stream with a ghostly rod;
 They will touch the hearts of the living with a flame that sanctifies,
  A flame that they took with strong young hands
    from the altar-fires of God.

When night is almost done,
And sunrise grows so near
That we can touch the spaces,
It 's time to smooth the hair

And get the dimples ready,
And wonder we could care
For that old faded midnight
That frightened but an hour.

  To me my Julia lately sent
  A bracelet richly redolent:
  The beads I kissed, but most lov'd her
  That did perfume the pomander.

Pomander, a ball of scent.

Folks ain't got no right to censuah othah folks about dey habits;
Him dat giv' de squir'ls de bushtails made de bobtails fu' de rabbits.
Him dat built de gread big mountains hollered out de little valleys,
Him dat made de streets an' driveways wasn't shamed to make de alleys.

We is all constructed diff'ent, d'ain't no two of us de same;
We cain't he'p ouah likes an' dislikes, ef we'se bad we ain't to blame.
Ef we 'se good, we need n't show off, case you bet it ain't ouah doin'
We gits into su'ttain channels dat we jes' cain't he'p pu'suin'.

But we all fits into places dat no othah ones could fill,
An' we does the things we has to, big er little, good er ill.
John cain't tek de place o' Henry, Su an' Sally ain't alike;
Bass ain't nuthin' like a suckah, chub ain't nuthin' like a pike.

When you come to think about it, how it 's all planned out it 's splendid.
Nuthin 's done er evah happens, 'dout hit 's somefin' dat 's intended;
Don't keer whut you does, you has to, an' hit sholy beats de dickens,--
Viney, go put on de kittle, I got one o' mastah's chickens.

Remember me when I am gone away,
  Gone far away into the silent land;
  When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more, day by day,
  You tell me of our future that you planned:
  Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
  And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
  For if the darkness and corruption leave
  A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
  Than that you should remember and be sad.

                                 I

HERE’S the mould of a musical bird long passed from light,
Which over the earth before man came was winging;
There’s a contralto voice I heard last night,
That lodges in me still with its sweet singing.

                                 II

Such a dream is Time that the coo of this ancient bird
Has perished not, but is blent, or will be blending
Mid visionless wilds of space with the voice that I heard,
In the full-fugued song of the universe unending.