When comes the reaper with his scythe,
And reaps and nothing leaves,
Oh, then it is that Death is blithe,
And sups among the sheaves.
Death! Death!

Lower the coffin and slip the cord:
Death is master of clown and lord.

When logs about the house are stack'd,

And next year's hose is knit, And tales are told and jokes are crack'd, And faggots blaze and spit; Death sits down in the ingle-nook,

Sits down and doth not speak :

But he puts his arm round the maid that's

warm,

And she tingles in the cheek.

Death! Death!

Death is master of lord and clown; Shovel the clay in, tread it down.

MOTHER-SONG

WHITE little hands!

Pink little feet!

Dimpled all over,

Sweet, sweet, sweet!
What dost thou wail for?

The unknown? the unseen?
The ills that are coming,
The joys that have been?

Cling to me closer,

Closer and closer,
Till the pain that is purer

Hath banish'd the grosser.
Drain, drain at the stream, love,
Thy hunger is freeing,
That was born in a dream, love,
Along with thy being !

Little fingers that feel

For their home on my breast, Little lips that appeal

For their nurture, their rest! Why, why dost thou weep, dear? Nay, stifle thy cries,

Till the dew of thy sleep, dear,
Lies soft on thine eyes.

AGATHA

SHE wanders in the April woods,
That glisten with the fallen shower;
She leans her face against the buds,

She stops, she stoops, she plucks a flower.

She feels the ferment of the hour:
She broodeth when the ringdove broods;
The sun and flying clouds have power
Upon her cheek and changing moods.
She cannot think she is alone,

As o'er her senses warmly steal
Floods of unrest she fears to own,
And almost dreads to feel.

Among the summer woodlands wide
Anew she roams, no more alone;
The joy she fear'd is at her side,

Spring's blushing secret now is known. The primrose and its mates have flown, The thrush's ringing note hath died;

But glancing eye and glowing tone
Fall on her from her god, her guide.
She knows not, asks not, what the goal,
She only feels she moves towards
bliss,

And yields her pure unquestioning soul
To touch and fondling kiss.

And still she haunts those woodland ways,
Though all fond fancy finds there now
To mind of spring or summer days,

Are sodden trunk and songless bough. The past sits widow'd on her brow, Homeward she wends with wintry gaze,

To walls that house a hollow vow,

To hearth where love hath ceas'd to blaze: Watches the clammy twilight wane,

With grief too fix'd for woe or tear ; And, with her forehead 'gainst the pane, Envies the dying year.

THE HAYMAKERS' SONG
HERE's to him that grows it,
Drink, lads, drink!

That lays it in and mows it,
Clink, jugs, clink!
To him that mows and makes it,
That scatters it and shakes it,
That turns, and teds, and rakes it,
Clink, jugs, clink!

Now here's to him that stacks it,
Drink, lads, drink!

That thrashes and that tacks it,
Clink, jugs, clink!

That cuts it out for eating,

When March-dropp'd lambs are bleating, And the slate-blue clouds are sleeting, Drink, lads, drink!

My days are full of pleasant memories
Of all those women sweet,

Whom I have known! How tenderly their eyes

Flash thro' the days too fleet! Which long ago went by with sun and rain, Flowers, or the winter snow;

And still thro' memory's palace-halls are fain

In rustling robes to go !

Or wed, or widow'd, or with milkless breasts, Around those women stand,

Like mists that linger on the mountain crests

Rear'd in a phantom land;

And love is in their mien and in their look, And from their lips a stream

Of tender words flows, smooth as any brook, And softer than a dream :

And, one by one, holding my hands, they say
Things of the years agone;

And each head will a little turn away,
And each one still sigh on ;

Because they think such meagre joy we had;

For love was little bold,

And youth had store, and chances to be glad,

And squander'd so his gold.

Blue

eyes, and gray, and blacker than the sloe,

And dusk and golden hair,

And lips that broke in kisses long ago,
Like sun-kiss'd flowers, are there;
And warm fire-side, and sunny orchard wall,
And river-brink and bower,

And wood and hill, and morning and dayfall,

And every place and hour!

And each on each a white unclouded brow Still as a sister bends,

As they would say, "love makes us kindred

now,

Who sometime were his friends."

BY THE SALPÉTRIÈRE

I SAW a poor old woman on the bench
That you may find by the Salpétrière.
The yellow leaves were falling, and the
wind

Gave hint of bitter days to come ere long.
And yet the sun was bright: and as I knew
A little sun, with the Parisiennes,

Means light of heart, I could not but demand

"Why, now, so near to weeping, citizen ?” She look'd up at me with vague surprise, And said, "You see I'm old; I'm very

old:

I'm eighty years and nine; and people say This winter will be hard. And we have here,

We
poor old women in this hospital,
A mortal dread of one strange bitter thing.
We would be buried in a coffin, we;
For each her own. It is not much you

crave,

Who've striven ninety years, and come to this,

And we would have the priest to say a prayer To the good God for us, within the church, Before we go the way that go we must. And sou by sou we save :-a coffin costs, You hear, Sir? - sixteen francs; and if we go

To church en route, 't is six francs for the priest.

There's some of us have sav'd it all, and smile,

With the receipt sew'd up, lest they should lose

This passport to the grave of honest folk.
But one may die before; and then there is
One coffin for us all, and we are borne
To our last place, and slipp'd within the
grave,

And back they take the coffin for the next.
And if you've sixteen francs, and not the six,
No church, but just a sprinkle with the brush,
And half a prayer, and you must take your

The sparrows gather'd from the Squares, Upon the branches green;

The pigeons flock'd from Palace-Yard,
Afresh their wings to preen;

And children down St. Martin's Lane,
And out of Westminster,

Came trooping, many a thousand strong,
With a bewilder'd air.

They hugg'd each other round the neck And titter'd for delight,

To see the yellow daffodils,

And see the daisies white;
They roll'd upon the grassy slopes,
And drank the water clear,
While 'busses the Embankment took,
Asham'd to pass anear;

And sandwich-men stood still aghast,
And costermongers smil'd;
And the policeman on his beat
Pass'd, weeping like a child.

ODE TO MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKEN

(ON SEEING A STORM-PETREL IN A CAGE ON A COTTAGE WALL AND RELEASING IT)

GAZE not at me, my poor unhappy bird; That sorrow is more than human in thine eye;

Too deep already is my spirit stirr'd

To see thee here, child of the sea and sky,

Coop'd in a cage with food thou canst not eat, Thy "snow-flake" soil'd, and soil'd those conquering feet

That walk'd the billows, while thy "sweetsweet-sweet"

Proclaim'd the tempest nigh.

Bird whom I welcom'd while the sailors curs'd,

Friend whom I bless'd wherever keels may roam,

THE SONNET'S VOICE

(A METRICAL LESSON BY THe seashore) YON silvery billows breaking on the beach Fall back in foam beneath the star-shine clear,

The while my rhymes are murmuring in your ear

A restless lore like that the billows teach; For on these sonnet-waves my soul would reach

From its own depths, and rest within you, dear,

As, through the billowy voices yearning here, Great nature strives to find a human speech. A sonnet is a wave of melody:

From heaving waters of the impassion'd soul

A billow of tidal music one and whole
Flows in the "octave ;" then returning free,
Its ebbing surges in the "sestet" roll
Back to the deeps of Life's tumultuous sea.