Part 4 (1/2)

Deep we lie in the churchyard mould, dear, Who shall remember to love the dead?

(Ah, the dead, who shall come no more, dear, Gone and forgotten, so you say-- Standing here in the dark at your door, dear,-- Dead and forgotten and gone for aye.)

Your hours pa.s.s with laughter and song, dear, Do we blame you that you forget?

All our years are empty and long, dear, We, in our graves, remember yet.

We remember, and ofttimes rise, dear, From our beds 'neath the churchyard sod, Walking ever, with wistful eyes, dear, Old-time ways that in life we trod.

We remember, who are forgot, dear-- Do we blame you that you forget?

How should we live in your lightest thought, dear?

Only--the dead remember yet.

_The Reply_

Do we forget?--We cannot hear your call; Your tap upon the pane Sounds to our ears but as the leaves that fall, Or beat of sobbing rain.

We cannot see you standing at the door, Or pa.s.sing through the gloom; We strain our ears, yet hear your step no more In the familiar room.

And seeing not--but waiting, with a numb, Bewildered heart and brain, And hearing not--but only winds that come And wail against the pane,

And dreaming of you in some brighter sphere, We--we, too--grieve and fret That you, whom still we hold so dear, so dear, Should all so soon forget.

THE MASTER OF SHADOWS

Into the western waters Slow sinks the sunset light, And the voice of the Wind of Shadows Calls to my heart to-night--

Calls from the magic countries, The lost and the lovely lands Where stands the Master of Shadows, Holding the dreams in his hands.

All the dreams of the ages Gather around him there, Visions of things forgotten And of things that never were.

Birds in the swaying woodlands, Creatures furry and small, Turn to the Master of Shadows And he gives of his dreams to all.

Lo! I am worn and weary, Sick of the garish light; Blow, thou Wind of the Shadows, Into my heart to-night.

Out of the magic countries, The lost and the lovely lands, Where he, the Master of Shadows, Waits, with the dreams in his hands.

_DIANE AU BOIS_

Through the sere woods she walks alone, With bow unstrung and empty quiver; Her hounds are dead, her maidens gone, She walks alone forever; Watching the while with wistful eyes Her crescent s.h.i.+ning in the skies.

The flutes of Pan are silent now, Hushed is the sound of Faunus' singing; Through winds that shake the withering bough No dryad's voice is ringing.