In Memoriam

PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.

When you were tired and went away, I said, amid my new heart-ache: "When I catch breath from pain some day, I will teach grief a worthier way, And make a great song for his sake!"

Yet there is silence. O my friend, You gave me love such years ago-- A child who could not comprehend Its worth, yet kept it to the end-- How can I sing when you lie low?

Not always silence. O my dear, Not when the empty heart and hand Reach out for you, who are not near. If you could see, if you could hear, I think that you would understand.

The grief that can get leave to run In channels smooth of tender song Wins solace mine has never won. I have left all my work undone, And only dragged my grief along.

Many who loved you many years (Not more than I shall always do), Will breathe their songs in your dead ears; God help them if they weep such tears As I, who have no song for you.

You would forgive me, if you knew! Silence is all I have to bring (Where tears are many, words are few); I have but tears to bring to you, For, since you died, I cannot sing!

RONDEAU.

TO AUSTIN DOBSON.

Your dainty Muse her form arrays In soft brocades of bygone days. She walks old gardens where the dews Gem sundials and trim-cut yews And tremble on the tulip's blaze. The magic scent her charm conveys Which lives on when the rose decays. She had her portrait done by Greuze-- Your dainty Muse!

Mine's hardier--walks life's muddy ways Barefooted; preaches, sometimes prays, Is modern, is advanced, has views; Goes in for lectures, reads the news, And sends her homespun verse to praise Your dainty Muse!

RONDEAU.

TO W. E. HENLEY.

Dream and delight had passed away, Their springs dried by the dusty day, And sordid fetters bound me tight, Forged for poor song by money-might; I writhed, and could not get away. There might have been no flowering may In all the world--life looked so gray With dust of railways, choking quite Dream and delight.

When, lo! your white book came my way, With scent of honey-buds and hay, Starshine and day-dawns pure and bright, The rose blood-red, the may moon-white. I owe you--would I could repay-- Dream and delight.

TO WALTER SICKERT.