Part 41

In gladness of thy reverie What gracious form Will fly the errand of our love to thee, By ways with winged messengers aswarm Through dawn of opalescent skies, To say the time is come and bid thee rise And be our child, Oithona?

Home

"Where shall we dwell?" say you. Wandering winds reply: "In a temple with roof of blue -- Under the splendid sky."

Never a nobler home We'll find though an age we try Than is arched by the azure dome Of the all-enfolding sky.

Here we are wed, and here We live under God's own eye. "Where shall we dwell," my dear? Under the splendid sky.

Wilfred

What of these tender feet That have never toddled yet? What dances shall they beat, With what red vintage wet? In what wild way will they march or stray, by what sly paynims met?

The toil of it none may share; By yourself must the way be won Through fervid or frozen air Till the overland journey's done; And I would not take, for your own dear sake, one thorn from your track, my son.

Go forth to your hill and dale, Yet take in your hand from me A staff when your footsteps fail, A weapon if need there be; 'Twill hum in your ear when the foeman's near, athirst for the victory.

In the desert of dusty death It will point to the hidden spring; Should you weary and fail for breath, It will burgeon and branch and swing Till you sink to sleep in its shadow deep to the sound of its murmuring.

. . . . .

You must face the general foe -- A phantom pale and grim. If you flinch at his glare, he'll grow And gather your strength to him; But your power will rise if you laugh in his eyes and away in a mist he'll swim.

To your freeborn soul be true -- Fling parchment in the fire; Men's laws are null for you, For a word of Love is higher, And can you do aught, when He rules your thought, but follow your own desire?

You will dread no pinching dearth In the home where you love to lie, For your floor will be good brown earth And your roof the open sky. There'll be room for all at your festival when the heart-red wine runs high.

. . . . .

Joy to you, joy and strife And a golden East before, And the sound of the sea of life In your ears when you reach the shore, And a hope that still with as good a will you may fight as you fought of yore.

Arthur H. Adams.

Bayswater, W.

About me leagues of houses lie, Above me, grim and straight and high, They climb; the terraces lean up Like long grey reefs against the sky.

Packed tier on tier the people dwell; Each narrow, hollow wall is full; And in that hive of honeycomb, Remote and high, I have one cell.

And when I turn into my street I hear in murmurous retreat A tide of noises flowing out -- The city ebbing from my feet!

And lo! two long straight walls between, There dwells a little park serene, Where blackened trees and railings hem A little handkerchief of green!

Yet I can see across the roof The sun, the stars and . . . God! For proof -- Between the twisting chimney-pots A pointing finger, old, aloof!

The traffic that the city rends Within my quiet haven ends In a deep murmur, or across My pool a gentle ripple sends.

A chime upon the silence drab Paints music; hooting motors stab The pleasant peace; and, far and faint, The jangling lyric of the cab!

And when I wander, proud and free, Through my domain, unceasingly The endless pageant of the shops Marches along the street with me.

About me ever blossoming Like rich parterres the hoardings fling An opulence of hue, and make Within my garden endless Spring.

The droning tram-cars spitting light: And like great bees in drunken flight Burly and laden deep with bloom, The 'busses lumbering home at night!