Part 12 (1/2)

ALMA MATER

_Know you her secret none can utter?_ Hers of the Book, the tripled Crown?

Still on the spire the pigeons flutter, Still by the gateway flits the gown; Still on the street, from corbel and gutter, Faces of stone look down.

Faces of stone, and stonier faces-- Some from library windows wan Forth on her gardens, her green s.p.a.ces, Peer and turn to their books anon.

Hence, my Muse, from the green oases Gather the tent, begone!

Nay, should she by the pavement linger Under the rooms where once she played, Who from the feast would rise to fling her One poor _sou_ for her serenade?

One short laugh for the antic finger Thrumming a lute-string frayed?

Once, my dear--but the world was young then-- Magdalen elms and Trinity limes-- Lissom the blades and the backs that swung then, Eight good men in the good old times-- Careless we, and the chorus flung then Under St Mary's chimes!

Reins lay loose and the ways led random-- Christ Church meadow and Iffley track, ”Idleness horrid and dog-cart” (tandem), Aylesbury grind and Bicester pack-- Pleasant our lines, and faith! we scanned 'em: Having that artless knack.

Come, old limmer, the times grow colder; Leaves of the creeper redden and fall.

Was it a hand then clapped my shoulder?-- Only the wind by the chapel wall!

Dead leaves drift on the lute ... So, fold her Under the faded shawl.

Never we wince, though none deplore us, We who go reaping that we sowed; Cities at c.o.c.k-crow wake before us-- Hey, for the lilt of the London road!

One look back, and a rousing chorus!

Never a palinode!

Still on her spire the pigeons hover; Still by her gateway haunts the gown.

Ah! but her secret? You, young lover, Drumming her old ones forth from town, Know you the secret none discover?

Tell it--when _you_ go down.

Yet if at length you seek her, prove her, Lean to her whispers never so nigh; Yet if at last not less her lover You in your hansom leave the High; Down from her towers a ray shall hover-- Touch you, a pa.s.ser-by!

CHRISTMAS EVE

Friend, old friend in the Manse by the fireside sitting, Hour by hour while the grey ash drips from the log; You with a book on your knee, your wife with her knitting, Silent both, and between you, silent, the dog.

Silent here in the south sit I; and, leaning, One sits watching the fire, with chin upon hand; Gazes deep in its heart--but ah! its meaning Rather I read in the shadows and understand.

Dear, kind she is; and daily dearer, kinder, Love shuts the door on the lamp and our two selves:

Not my stirring awakened the flame that behind her Lit up a face in the leathern dusk of the shelves.

Veterans are my books, with tarnished gilding: Yet there is one gives back to the winter grate Gold of a sunset flooding a college building, Gold of an hour I waited--as now I wait--

For a light step on the stair, a girl's low laughter, Rustle of silk, shy knuckles tapping the oak, Dinner and mirth upsetting my rooms and, after, Music, waltz upon waltz, till the June day broke.