Alice Christiana Gertrude Thompson Meynell

Along the graceless grass of town They rake the rows of red and brown, Dead leaves, unlike the rows of hay,

AD SOROREM E. B. "Thy father was transfused into thy blood." Dryden: Ode to Mrs. Anne Killigrew.

Listen, and when thy hand this paper presses, O time-worn woman, think of her who blesses What thy thin fingers touch, with her caresses.

If I should quit thee, sacrifice, forswear, To what, my art, shall I give thee in keeping? To the long winds of heaven? Shall these come sweeping

I saw a tract of ocean locked in-land Within a field's embrace - The very sea! Afar it fled the strand

A voice peals in this end of night A phrase of notes resembling stars, Single and spiritual notes of light.

O what a miracle wind is this Has crossed the English land to-day With an unprecedented kiss,

Farewell has long been said; I have forgone thee; I never name thee even. But how shall I learn virtues and yet shun thee?

There's a feast undated yet: Both our true lives hold it fast,- The first day we ever met.

Home, home from the horizon far and clear, Hither the soft wings sweep; Flocks of the memories of the day draw near

We build with strength the deep tower-wall That shall be shattered thus and thus. And fair and great are court and hall,

Brief, on a flying night, From the shaken tower, A flock of bells take flight,

The child not yet is lulled to rest. Too young a nurse, the slender Night So laxly holds him to her breast

All night had shout of men and cry Of woeful women filled His way; Until that noon of sombre sky

Dear are some hidden things My soul has sealed in silence; past delights, Hope unconfessed; desires with hampered wings,

No new delights to our desire The singers of the past can yield. I lift mine eyes to hill and field,

Thou art the Way. Hadst Thou been nothing but the goal, I cannot say

The leaves are many under my feet, And drift one way. Their scent of death is weary and sweet.

O Spring, I know thee! Seek for sweet surprise In the young children's eyes. But I have learnt the years, and know the yet

I dreamt (no "dream" awake-a dream indeed) A wrathful man was talking in the park: "Where are the Higher Powers, who know our need

There is no length of days But yours, boys who were children once.    Of old The past beset you in your childish ways,

Rorate Coeli desuper, et nubes pluant Justum. Aperiatur Terra, et germinet Salvatorem. No sudden thing of glory and fear

The colour of the electric lights has a strange effect in giving a complementary tint to the air in the early evening. - ESSAY ON LONDON. O, Heavenly colour! London town Has blurred it from her skies;

Two o'clock, the morning of October 12th, 1915. To her accustomed eyes The midnight-morning brought not such a dread

"When Augustus Caesar legislated against the unmarried citizens of Rome, he declared them to be, in some sort, slayers of the people." Ah no, not these! These, who were childless, are not they who gave

Farewell to one now silenced quite, Sent out of hearing, out of sight,- My friend of friends, whom I shall miss.

As, when the seaward ebbing tide doth pour Out by the low sand spaces, The parting waves slip back to clasp the shore

I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong, I shun the thought that lurks in all delight- The thought of thee-and in the blue Heaven's height,

I had not seen my son's dear face (He chose the cloister by God's grace) Since it had come to full flower-time.

Quiet form of silent nun, What has given you to my inward eyes? What has marked you, unknown one,

As the inhastening tide doth roll, Dear and desired, along the whole Wide shining strand, and floods the caves,

My Fair, no beauty of thine will last Save in my love's eternity. Thy smiles, that light thee fitfully,

THE POET SINGS TO HIS POET From dawn to dusk, and from dusk to dawn, We two are sundered always, sweet.

All my stars forsake me, And the dawn-winds shake me. Where shall I betake me?

THE POET SINGS TO HER POET O poet of the time to be, My conqueror, I began for thee.

A poet of one mood in all my lays, Ranging all life to sing one only love, Like a west wind across the world I move,

I touched the heart that loved me as a player Touches a lyre; content with my poor skill No touch save mine knew my beloved (and still

Rich meanings of the prophet-Spring adorn, Unseen, this colourless sky of folded showers, And folded winds; no blossom in the bowers.

My heart shall be thy garden. Come, my own, Into thy garden; thine be happy hours Among my fairest thoughts, my tallest flowers,

O'er the Campagna it is dim warm weather; The Spring comes with a full heart silently, And many thoughts; a faint flash of the sea

Like him who met his own eyes in the river, The poet trembles at his own long gaze That meets him through the changing nights and days

Who knows what days I answer for to-day: Giving the bud I give the flower. I bow This yet unfaded and a faded brow;

I have no secrets from thee, lyre sublime, My lyre whereof I make my melody. I sing one way like the west wind through thee,

We never meet; yet we meet day by day Upon those hills of life, dim and immense: The good we love, and sleep-our innocence.

Slight as thou art, thou art enough to hide, Like all created things, secrets from me, And stand a barrier to eternity.

Who looked for thee, thou little song of mine? This winter of a silent poet's heart Is suddenly sweet with thee, but what thou art,

On London fell a clearer light; Caressing pencils of the sun Defined the distances, the white

Lord, where are Thy prerogatives? Why, men have more than Thou hast kept; The king rewards, remits, forgives,

Behold, The time is now! Bring back, bring back Thy flocks of fancies, wild of whim.

The Lady Poverty was fair: But she has lost her looks of late, With change of times and change of air.

"Audemus dicere 'Pater Noster.'"-CANON OF THE MASS. There is a bolder way, There is a wilder enterprise than this

Oh what a kiss With filial passion overcharged is this! To this misgiving breast

I come from nothing; but from where Come the undying thoughts I bear? Down, through long links of death and birth,

As the full moon shining there To the sun that lighteth her Am I unto thee for ever,

In my thought I see you stand with a path on either hand, -Hills that look into the sun, and there a river'd meadow-land. And your lost voice with the things that it decreed across me thrills,

A flock of winds came winging from the North, Strong birds with fighting pinions driving forth With a resounding call!

She walks - the lady of my delight - A shepherdess of sheep. Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white;

Three times have I beheld Fear leap in a babe's face, and take his breath, Fear, like the fear of eld

Whose is the speech That moves the voices of this lonely beech? Out of the long West did this wild wind come -

"A riddling world!" one cried. "If pangs must be, would God that they were sent To the impure, the cruel, and passed aside

TO SHAKESPEARE Longer than thine, than thine, Is now my time of life; and thus thy years

Thou art not dead, O sweet lost melody, Sung beyond memory, When golden to the winds this world of ours

Thou who singest through the earth, All the earth's wild creatures fly thee, Everywhere thou marrest mirth.

Across what calm of tropic seas, 'Neath alien clusters of the nights, Looked, in the past, such eyes as these?

Oh, not more subtly silence strays Amongst the winds, between the voices, Mingling alike with pensive lays,

Beloved, thou art like a tune that idle fingers Play on a window-pane. The time is there, the form of music lingers;

The Art of Painting had in the Primitive years looked with the light, not towards it.    Before Tintoretto's date, however, many painters practised shadows and lights, and turned more or less sunwards; but he set the figure between himself and a full sun.    His work is to be known in Venice by the splendid trick of an occluded sun and a shadow thrown straight at the spectator. Tintoretto's thronged "Procession to Calvary" and his "Crucifixion," incidentally named, are two of the greatest of his multitude of works in Venice. Master, thy enterprise,

Given, not lent, And not withdrawn - once sent - This Infant of mankind, this One,

Thou man, first-comer, whose wide arms entreat, Gather, clasp, welcome, bind, Lack, or remember! whose warm pulses beat

So humble things Thou hast borne for us, O God, Left'st Thou a path of lowliness untrod? Yes, one, till now; another Olive-Garden.

"You never attained to Him?" "If to attain Be to abide, then that may be." "Endless the way, followed with how much pain!"

Another day awakes. And who - Changing the world - is this? He comes at whiles, the Winter through,

Why wilt thou chide, Who hast attained to be denied? Oh learn, above