HE lost days of my life until to-day, THE What were they, could I see them on the street Lie as they fell? Would they be ears of wheat Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet? Dante Gabriel Rossetti 167 "PR THE PRODIGALS1 RINCES!—and you, most valorous, Hearken awhile to the prayer of us, Beggars that come from the over-seas! Lo, for the surcote's hem we seize,— "Dames most delicate, amorous! Damosels blithe as the belted bees! Beggars that come from the over-seas! Weary are we, and worn, and gray; Lo, for we clutch and we clasp your knees,- 1 Reprinted through special arrangement with Mr. Alban Dobson and with the Oxford University Press. 168 "Damosels-Dames, be piteous!" (But the dames rode fast by the roadway trees.) (But the knights pricked on in their panoplies.) But only to beat on the breast and say:- ENVOY Youth, take heed to the prayer of these! Many that cry to the rocks and seas:— DAYS Austin Dobson AUGHTERS of Time, the hypocritic Days, And marching single in an endless file, To each they offer gifts after his will, Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all. Forgot my morning wishes, hastily Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day Ralph Waldo Emerson 169 170 TO MR. LAWRENCE AWRENCE, of virtuous father virtuous son, LAW Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire, Help waste a sullen day, what 'may be won From the hard season gaining? Time will run On smoother, till Favonius reinspire The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire He who of those delights can judge, and spare John Milton YRIACK, whose grandsire, on the royal bench CYR Of British Themis, with no mean applause Toward solid good what leads the nearest way; For other things mild Heaven a time ordains, 171 E FANCY VER let the Fancy roam! Pleasure never is at home: At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; Through the thought still spread beyond her: Open wide the mind's cage-door, She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. O sweet Fancy! let her loose; Spirit of a winter's night; When the soundless earth is muffled, And the cakèd snow is shuffled From the plowboy's heavy shoon; When the Night doth meet the Noon In a dark conspiracy To banish Even from her sky. She has vassals to attend her; |