class="c7">When winter winds blow chill,
Goes piping o'er the upland,
Goes piping by the rill;
And whoso hears his music
Must follow where he will.

Daluan, the Shepherd,
(So the old story saith)
He pipes the tunes of laughter,
The songs of sighing breath;
He pipes the souls of mortals
Through the dark gates of Death.

Daluan, the Shepherd,
Who listens to his strain
Shall look no more on laughter,
Shall taste no more of pain,
Shall know no more the longing
That eats at heart and brain.

Daluan, the Shepherd—
Beside the sobbing rill,
And through the dripping woodlands,
And up the gusty hill,
I hear the pipes of Daluan
Crying and calling still.

DEAD—AND LIVING

The Question

If we should tap on your pane to-night, dear,
Standing here in the dark outside,
As in the far-off days and bright, dear,
Say, would you fling the window wide?

Nay, you would turn to the firelight's gold, dear,
Saying, "'Tis but a dream that fled;"
Deep we lie in the churchyard mould, dear,
Who shall remember to love the dead?

(Ah, the dead, who shall come no more, dear,
Gone and forgotten, so you say—
Standing here in the dark at your door, dear,—
Dead and forgotten and gone for aye.)

Your hours pass with laughter and song, dear,
Do we blame you that you forget?
All our years are empty and long, dear,
We, in our graves, remember yet.

We remember, and ofttimes rise, dear,
From our beds 'neath the churchyard sod,
Walking ever, with wistful eyes, dear,
Old-time ways that in life we trod.

We remember, who are forgot, dear—
Do we blame you that you forget?
How should we live in your lightest thought, dear?
Only—the dead remember yet.

The Reply

Do we forget?—We cannot hear your call;
Your tap upon the pane
Sounds to our ears but as the leaves that fall,
Or beat of sobbing rain.

We cannot see you standing at the door,
Or passing through the gloom;
We strain our ears, yet hear your step no more
In the familiar room.

And seeing not—but waiting, with a numb,
Bewildered heart and brain,
And hearing not—but only winds that come
And wail against the pane,

And dreaming of you in some brighter sphere,
We—we, too—grieve and fret
That you, whom still we hold so dear, so dear,
Should all so soon forget.

THE MASTER OF SHADOWS

Into the western waters
Slow sinks the sunset light,
And the voice of the Wind of Shadows
Calls to my heart to-night—

Calls from the magic countries,
The lost and the lovely lands
Where stands the Master of Shadows,
Holding the dreams in his hands.

All the dreams of the ages
Gather around him there,
Visions of things forgotten
And of things that never were.

Birds in the swaying woodlands,
Creatures furry and small,
Turn to the Master of Shadows
And he gives of his dreams to all.

Lo! I am worn and weary,
Sick of the garish light;
Blow, thou Wind of the Shadows,
Into my heart to-night.

Out of the magic countries,
The lost and the lovely lands,
Where he, the Master of Shadows,
Waits, with the dreams in his hands.

DIANE AU BOIS

Through the sere woods she walks alone,
With bow unstrung and empty quiver;
Her hounds are dead, her maidens gone,
She walks alone forever;
Watching the while with wistful eyes
Her crescent shining in the skies.

The flutes of Pan are silent now,
Hushed is the sound of Faunus' singing;
Through winds that shake the withering bough
No dryad's voice is ringing.
Syrinx has left her river deep,
E'en old Silenus sound doth sleep.

The startled deer before her flee,
The nightingales with music meet her;
Yet never mortal eye shall see
Or mortal voices greet her.
Her shrines with weeds are overgrown,
Their fires are out; their worship done.

Yet sometimes, so 'twas told to me,
The children playing in the meadows
May hear her song, that mournfully
Comes floating through the shadows,
And sometimes see, through boughs grown bare,
The moonlit brightness of her hair.

And, it may be, her weary feet,
White gleaming through those dusky spaces,
May, after many wanderings, meet
The dear, familiar places;
And find, beyond the sunset's gold,
Ghosts of the Gods she knew of old.

THE RED HORSE

He came and whinnied at my door,
The wild red horse, with flowing mane;
And I—I crossed the threshold o'er,
Leaving behind my wonted life,
And hope of joy, and fear of pain,
And clasp of friend, and kiss of wife,
And clinging touch of childish hands,
And love and laughter, grief and glee,
And rode him out across the sands
Beside a dark, mysterious sea.

Across my face his mane was blown,
I saw the eddying stars grow dim,
And suddenly the past had grown
A dream of weariness gone by,
And I was fain to ride with him
Forever up a darkening sky,
And hear the far, thin, fairy tune
That through the darkness seemed to beat,
Until at length the crescent moon
Was lying underneath our feet.

And there the unknown beaches lay
With stars for silvery pebbles strown,
And thin and faint and far away
Came all the noises of the world,
And up