Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate,
 Where that comes in that shall not go again;
Love sells the proud heart's citadel to Fate.
 They have known shame, who love unloved.  Even then,
When two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking,
 And agony's forgot, and hushed the crying
Of credulous hearts, in heaven -- such are but taking
 Their own poor dreams within their arms, and lying
Each in his lonely night, each with a ghost.
 Some share that night.  But they know love grows colder,
Grows false and dull, that was sweet lies at most.
 Astonishment is no more in hand or shoulder,
But darkens, and dies out from kiss to kiss.
All this is love; and all love is but this.

Unfortunate

Heart, you are restless as a paper scrap
 That's tossed down dusty pavements by the wind;
 Saying, "She is most wise, patient and kind.
Between the small hands folded in her lap
Surely a shamed head may bow down at length,
 And find forgiveness where the shadows stir
About her lips, and wisdom in her strength,
 Peace in her peace.  Come to her, come to her!" . . .

She will not care.  She'll smile to see me come,
 So that I think all Heaven in flower to fold me.
 She'll give me all I ask, kiss me and hold me,
    And open wide upon that holy air
The gates of peace, and take my tiredness home,
    Kinder than God.  But, heart, she will not care.

The Chilterns

Your hands, my dear, adorable,
 Your lips of tenderness
-- Oh, I've loved you faithfully and well,
 Three years, or a bit less.
 It wasn't a success.

Thank God, that's done! and I'll take the road,
 Quit of my youth and you,
The Roman road to Wendover
 By Tring and Lilley Hoo,
 As a free man may do.

For youth goes over, the joys that fly,
 The tears that follow fast;
And the dirtiest things we do must lie
 Forgotten at the last;
 Even Love goes past.

What's left behind I shall not find,
 The splendour and the pain;
The splash of sun, the shouting wind,
 And the brave sting of rain,
 I may not meet again.

But the years, that take the best away,
 Give something in the end;
And a better friend than love have they,
 For none to mar or mend,
 That have themselves to friend.

I shall desire and I shall find
 The best of my desires;
The autumn road, the mellow wind
 That soothes the darkening shires.
 And laughter, and inn-fires.

White mist about the black hedgerows,
 The slumbering Midland plain,
The silence where the clover grows,
 And the dead leaves in the lane,
 Certainly, these remain.

And I shall find some girl perhaps,
 And a better one than you,
With eyes as wise, but kindlier,
 And lips as soft, but true.
 And I daresay she will do.

Home

I came back late and tired last night
 Into my little room,
To the long chair and the firelight
 And comfortable gloom.

But as I entered softly in
 I saw a woman there,
The line of neck and cheek and chin,
 The darkness of her hair,
The form of one I did not know
 Sitting in my chair.

I stood a moment fierce and still,
 Watching her neck and hair.
I made a step to her; and saw
 That there was no one there.

It was some trick of the firelight
 That made me see her there.
It was a chance of shade and light
 And the cushion in the chair.

Oh, all you happy over the earth,
 That night, how could I sleep?
I lay and watched the lonely gloom;
 And watched the moonlight creep
From wall to basin, round the room,
 All night I could not sleep.

The Night Journey

Hands and lit faces eddy to a line;
 The dazed last minutes click; the clamour dies.
Beyond the great-swung arc o' the roof, divine,
 Night, smoky-scarv'd, with thousand coloured eyes

Glares the imperious mystery of the way.
 Thirsty for dark, you feel the long-limbed train
Throb, stretch, thrill motion, slide, pull out and sway,
 Strain for the far, pause, draw to strength again. . . .

As a man, caught by some great hour, will rise,
 Slow-limbed, to meet the light or find his love;
And, breathing long, with staring sightless eyes,
 Hands out, head back, agape and silent, move

Sure as a flood, smooth as a vast wind blowing;
 And, gathering power and purpose as he goes,
Unstumbling, unreluctant, strong, unknowing,
 Borne by a will not his, that lifts, that grows,

Sweep out to darkness, triumphing in his goal,
 Out of the fire, out of the little room. . . .
-- There is an end appointed, O my soul!
 Crimson and green the signals burn; the gloom

Is hung with steam's far-blowing livid streamers.
 Lost into God, as lights in light, we fly,
Grown one with will, end-drunken huddled dreamers.
 The white lights roar.  The sounds of the world die.

And lips and laughter are forgotten things.
 Speed sharpens; grows.  Into the night, and on,
The strength and splendour of our purpose swings.
 The lamps fade; and the stars.  We are alone.

Song

All suddenly the wind comes soft,
 And Spring is here again;
And the hawthorn quickens with buds of green,
 And my heart with buds of pain.

My heart all Winter lay so numb,
 The earth so dead and frore,
That I never thought the Spring would come,
 Or my heart wake any more.

But Winter's broken and earth has woken,
 And the small birds cry again;
And the hawthorn hedge puts forth its buds,
 And my heart puts forth its pain.

Beauty and Beauty

When Beauty and Beauty meet
 All naked, fair to fair,
The earth is crying-sweet,
 And scattering-bright the air,
Eddying, dizzying, closing round,
 With soft and drunken laughter;
Veiling all that may befall
 After -- after --

Where Beauty and Beauty met,
 Earth's still a-tremble there,
And winds are scented yet,
 And memory-soft the air,
Bosoming, folding glints of light,
 And shreds of shadowy laughter;
Not the tears that fill the years
 After -- after --

The Way That Lovers Use

The way that lovers use is this;
 They bow, catch hands, with never a word,
And their lips meet, and they do kiss,
 -- So I have heard.

They queerly find some healing so,
 And strange attainment in the touch;
There is a secret lovers know,
 -- I have read as much.

And theirs no longer joy nor smart,
 Changing or ending, night or day;
But mouth to mouth, and heart on heart,
 -- So lovers say.

Mary and Gabriel