On The Tune Called The Old-Hundred-And-Fourth

WE never sang together Ravenscroft’s terse old tune On Sundays or on weekdays, In sharp or summer weather, At night-time or at noon.

Why did we never sing it, Why never so incline On Sundays or on weekdays, Even when soft wafts would wing it From your far floor to mine?

Shall we that tune, then, never Stand voicing side by side On Sundays or on weekdays? . . . Or shall we, when for ever In Sheol we abide,

Sing it in desolation, As we might long have done On Sundays or on weekdays With love and exultation Before our sands had run?

THE OPPORTUNITY (FOR H. P.)

FORTY springs back, I recall, We met at this phase of the Maytime: We might have clung close through all, But we parted when died that daytime.

We parted with smallest regret; Perhaps should have cared but slightly, Just then, if we never had met: Strange, strange that we lived so lightly!

Had we mused a little space At that critical date in the Maytime, One life had been ours, one place, Perhaps, till our long cold daytime.

—This is a bitter thing For thee, O man: what ails it? The tide of chance may bring Its offer; but nought avails it!