child ne’er ran to rest
Upon the light heart and the unoppressed.

   Unhoped, unsought!
A little tenderness, this mother thought
   The utmost of her meed
She looked for gratitude; content indeed
With thus much that her nine years’ love had bought.

Nay, even with less.
This mother, giver of life, death, peace, distress,
   Desired ah! not so much
Thanks as forgiveness; and the passing touch
Expected, and the slight, the brief caress.

   Oh filial light
Strong in these childish eyes, these new, these bright
   Intelligible stars!  Their rays
Are near the constant earth, guides in the maze,
Natural, true, keen in this dusk of days.

WEST WIND IN WINTER

Another day awakes.  And who—
   Changing the world—is this?
He comes at whiles, the Winter through,
   West Wind!  I would not miss
His sudden tryst: the long, the new
   Surprises of his kiss.

Vigilant, I make haste to close
   With him who comes my way.
I go to meet him as he goes;
   I know his note, his lay,
His colour and his morning rose;
   And I confess his day.

My window waits; at dawn I hark
   His call; at morn I meet
His haste around the tossing park
   And down the softened street;
The gentler light is his; the dark,
   The grey—he turns it sweet.

So too, so too, do I confess
   My poet when he sings.
He rushes on my mortal guess
   With his immortal things.
I feel, I know him.  On I press—
   He finds me ‘twixt his wings.

NOVEMBER BLUE

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;
And hooded in an earthly brown,
   Unheaven’d the city lies.
No longer standard-like this hue
   Above the broad road flies;
Nor does the narrow street the blue
   Wear, slender pennon-wise.

But when the gold and silver lamps
   Colour the London dew,
And, misted by the winter damps,
   The shops shine bright anew—
Blue comes to earth, it walks the street,
   It dyes the wide air through;
A mimic sky about their feet,
   The throng go crowned with blue.

CHIMES

Brief, on a flying night,
From the shaken tower,
A flock of bells take flight,
And go with the hour.

Like birds from the cote to the gales,
Abrupt—O hark!
A fleet of bells set sails,
And go to the dark.

Sudden the cold airs swing.
Alone, aloud,
A verse of bells takes wing
And flies with the cloud.

UNTO US A SON IS GIVEN

      Given, not lent,
   And not withdrawn—once sent—
This Infant of mankind, this One,
Is still the little welcome Son.

      New every year,
   New-born and newly dear,
He comes with tidings and a song,
The ages long, the ages long.

      Even as the cold
   Keen winter grows not