Moments of Vision | Page 2

the waste, that July time
When the rain came down.
AFTERNOON SERVICE AT MELLSTOCK
(Circa 1850)
On afternoons of drowsy calm
We stood in the panelled pew,
Singing one-voiced a Tate-and-Brady
psalm
To the tune of "Cambridge New."
We watched the elms, we watched the rooks,
The clouds upon the breeze,
Between the whiles of glancing at our
books,
And swaying like the trees.

So mindless were those outpourings! -
Though I am not aware
That I have gained by subtle thought on
things
Since we stood psalming there.
AT THE WICKET-GATE
There floated the sounds of church-chiming,
But no one was nigh,
Till there came, as a break in the loneness,
Her father, she, I.
And we slowly moved on to the wicket,
And downlooking stood,
Till anon people passed, and amid them
We parted for good.
Greater, wiser, may part there than we three
Who parted there then,
But never will Fates colder-featured
Hold sway there again.
Of the churchgoers through the still meadows
No single one knew
What a play was played under their eyes there
As thence we withdrew.
IN A MUSEUM
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.
EXETER.
APOSTROPHE TO AN OLD PSALM TUNE
I met you first--ah, when did I first meet you?
When I was full of
wonder, and innocent,
Standing meek-eyed with those of choric bent,
While dimming day grew dimmer
In the pulpit-glimmer.
Much riper in years I met you--in a temple
Where summer sunset
streamed upon our shapes,
And you spread over me like a gauze that
drapes,
And flapped from floor to rafters,
Sweet as angels' laughters.
But you had been stripped of some of your old vesture
By Monk, or
another. Now you wore no frill,
And at first you startled me. But I
knew you still,
Though I missed the minim's waver,
And the dotted quaver.
I grew accustomed to you thus. And you hailed me
Through one who
evoked you often. Then at last
Your raiser was borne off, and I
mourned you had passed
From my life with your late outsetter;

Till I said, "'Tis better!"
But you waylaid me. I rose and went as a ghost goes,
And said,
eyes-full "I'll never hear it again!
It is overmuch for scathed and
memoried men
When sitting among strange people
Under their steeple."
Now, a new stirrer of tones calls you up before me
And wakes your
speech, as she of Endor did
(When sought by Saul who, in disguises
hid,
Fell down on the earth to hear it)
Samuel's spirit.
So, your quired oracles beat till they make me tremble
As I discern
your mien in the old attire,
Here in these turmoiled years of
belligerent fire
Living still on--and onward, maybe,
Till Doom's great day be!
Sunday, August 13, 1916.
AT THE WORD "FAREWELL"
She looked like a bird from a cloud
On the clammy lawn,
Moving alone, bare-browed
In the dim of dawn.
The candles alight in the room
For my parting meal
Made all things withoutdoors loom

Strange, ghostly, unreal.
The hour itself was a ghost,
And it seemed to me then
As of chances the chance furthermost
I should see her again.
I beheld not where all was so fleet
That a Plan of the past
Which had ruled us from birthtime to meet
Was in working at last:
No prelude did I there perceive
To a drama at all,
Or foreshadow what fortune might weave
From beginnings so small;
But I rose as if quicked by a spur
I was bound to obey,
And stepped through the casement to her
Still alone in the gray.
"I am leaving you . . . Farewell!" I said,
As I followed her on
By an alley bare boughs overspread;
"I soon must be gone!"
Even then the scale might have been turned
Against love by a feather,
- But crimson one cheek of hers burned
When we came in together.
FIRST SIGHT OF HER AND AFTER
A day is drawing to its fall
I had not dreamed to see;
The first of many to enthrall

My spirit, will it be?
Or is this eve the end of all
Such new delight for me?
I journey home: the pattern grows
Of moonshades on the way:
"Soon the first quarter, I suppose,"
Sky-glancing travellers say;
I realize that it, for those,
Has been a common day.
THE RIVAL
I determined to find out whose it was -
The portrait he looked at so,
and sighed;
Bitterly have I rued my meanness
And wept for it since he died!
I searched his desk when he was away,
And there was the
likeness--yes, my own!
Taken when I