A Boys Will | Page 4

He arrives at the turn of the year.
In a Vale
Out of old longings he fashions a story.
A Dream Pang
He is shown by a dream how really well it is with him.
In Neglect
He is scornful of folk his scorn cannot reach.
The Vantage Point
And again scornful, but there is no one hurt.
Mowing
He takes up life simply with the small tasks.

Going for Water?Part II
Revelation
He resolves to become intelligible, at least to himself, since there
is no help else;
The Trial by Existence
and to know definitely what he thinks about the soul;
In Equal Sacrifice
about love;
The Tuft of Flowers
about fellowship;
Spoils of the Dead
about death;
Pan with Us
about art (his own);
The Demiurge's Laugh
about science.

Part III
Now Close the Windows
It is time to make an end of speaking.?A Line-storm Song
It is the autumnal mood with a difference.?October
He sees days slipping from him that were the best for what they
were.
My Butterfly
There are things that can never be the same.

Reluctance
Into My Own
ONE of my wishes is that those dark trees,?So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,?Were not, as 'twere, the merest mask of gloom,?But stretched away unto the edge of doom.?I should not be withheld but that some day?Into their vastness I should steal away,?Fearless of ever finding open land,?Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.?I do not see why I should e'er turn back,?Or those should not set forth upon my track?To overtake me, who should miss me here?And long to know if still I held them dear.?They would not find me changed from him they knew--?Only more sure of all I thought was true.
Ghost House
I DWELL in a lonely house I know?That vanished many a summer ago,?And left no trace but the cellar walls,?And a cellar in which the daylight falls,?And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.?O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield?The woods come back to the mowing field;?The orchard tree has grown one copse?Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;?The footpath down to the well is healed.?I dwell with a strangely aching heart?In that vanished abode there far apart?On that disused and forgotten road?That has no dust-bath now for the toad.?Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;?The whippoorwill is coming to shout?And hush and cluck and flutter about:?I hear him begin far enough away?Full many a time to say his say?Before he arrives to say it out.?It is under the small, dim, summer star.?I know not who these mute folk are?Who share the unlit place with me--?Those stones out under the low-limbed tree?Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.?They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,?Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,--?With none among them that ever sings,?And yet, in view of how many things,?As sweet companions as might be had.
My November Guest
MY Sorrow, when she's here with me,?Thinks these dark days of autumn rain?Are beautiful as days can be;?She loves the bare, the withered tree;?She