And hoarded treasures fashioned of old
On his blood-stained back are borne.

*****

Is it the night-wind alone that blows shuddering
Down the dim corridors, tangled with weeds;
Is it a bat's wing, or is it an owl's wing
That silently passes, as thistledown seeds,
In the Hall, where the small owlet breeds?

Here do the moonbeams come, slithering, wandering
Over the faded, pale frescoes that stand
Faint and remote on the walls that are mouldering,
Crowned with a King's crown, or flowers in hand,
—Pale ghosts of a gaily-dressed band.

Faintly they gaze on the wide desolation;
Faintly they smile when the white moonbeams play
Over the dust of the throne-room of Minos,
Over the pavements where small creatures stray,
The humble small things of a day.

But there are other nights, moonless and starless,
When no moth flutters, no bat flits, owl calls,
Something is stirring, something is rustling,
Something that is not of mortals befalls
In galleries, cellars, and halls.

Soundless and viewless, a strange ghostly happening,
Life, long since ashes, and flames, long since dead;
For the Angel of Time goes relentlessly, steadily
Over dark places that mankind has fled;
And the dust is not stirred by that tread.

A SUN-DIAL IN A GARDEN

Across the quiet garden sunlight flows
In wave on wave like water, heavy bees
Hang drowsily upon the drowsy flowers,
For it is very still, and all the trees
Are pyramided high in green and gold.
There is a sun-dial there to mark the hours
Where time is not, where time has grown so old
It does not move now; yet the shadow goes
Across the dial that's so warm to feel
Like a cold, stealthy, creeping, living thing.
You cannot see it steal
Minute from minute of the golden day
Till all are eaten away,
You cannot press it back with both your hands,
And, on the shadowed stone
Laying your cheek, you never warmth can bring
To what beneath the sad triangle stands,
Solitary in sunlight: for we know,
It takes the whole great swinging earth to throw
The little shadow on the little stone.

"TWO ONLY"

Only two hearts shall understand the sea
That speaks at nightfall, in the wash and lap
Of windless evenings under flaming skies;
Only two hearts shall hear the rising sap
In wet spring woods; and two alone, grown wise
In union, shall make discovery
Of what lies hidden, though before our eyes.

Oh, core of wonder in familiar things:
Magic of evening, and of early morn
But just created, with the dew of birth
All fresh upon it, heaven itself new-born
O'er the green splendour of the quiet earth
And like a just-awakened bird that sings
Because of sunlight, is the spirit's mirth.

All forms of beauty but express the soul
As in a looking-glass; the wind that goes
Low-talking to the trees beneath the stars,
Or the small sound of water, as it flows
Under old bridges, where the ivy mars
The sharp stone outline—these are in the whole
Of the World-Symphony small, tuneful bars.

And human beings in the span of years
Some part of all the world-wealth may receive,
More, less, but never all; and with dismay
We see slow Time his net of hours weave
To catch from us dear mortal night and day,
Ere we have taken in our eyes and ears
Beauty that lies around, beyond, away.

We, singly, feel a sudden sharp regret
Behind all beauty, but we—two in one,
As white and blue are separate in a flame
Yet mingled—we shall watch the hours run
Seeing with surer knowledge how the same
Eternal splendour for the soul is set,
And the day comes again from whence day came.

THE SAINT'S BIRTHDAY

One of God's blessed pitying saints one day,
Reaching out hands to touch the azure throne:
"Because it is my birthday, Lord," he said,
"That I was born in heaven, when I was known
By an earthly name, and stoned and left for dead,

"Because it is the custom, Lord, of men
To keep their birthdays gladly, and with gifts
Grant me a blessing from your blesséd stores."
And from the cloudy rose and amber drifts
About the Throne, God answered: "It is yours."

Then sprang the glad Saint earthwards; at his feet
Were little golden flames, and all his hair
Was blown about his head like tongues of fire,
And like a star he burned through the dark air,
And came, and stood by farm and shed and byre

Before the earliest grey was in the East,
Or the first smoke above the chimney-stack
From earliest-rising housewife, yet the cheep
And twitter of birds did gladly welcome back
Him who such love for earth in heaven could keep,

And who on earth such love had had for men
And bird and beast, and all that lived and grew:
The sparrows in the eaves remembered him
And chirrupped in the gables, while the dew
Was dark still, and the day below the rim.

He stood there, in the village of his life
Ere he won heaven, and the breath of cows
Came as a benediction, and the smell
Of rain-sweet copses, and, where cattle browse,
Long grass, and running water in the dell.

And his heart opened with the love he had
For the dear toil-worn dwelling-place of men;
To hear the sheep crop, see the glimmering grey
Lighten the waiting windows once again,
And garden roses opening to the day.

Not otherwise was Eden once—he thought—
And by God's blessing it may be anew:
And so put forth the power God had lent
And took away all labour, and he drew
Heaven to earth, till earth and heaven were blent.

Time ceased to be; and yet the sun and shade
Shifted to make new beauty with the hours,
And the ripe earth, unlaboured, gave her yields,
No pain there was, no age, and all the flowers
Unwitheringly lovely filled the fields.

And all day long the birds in ecstasy
Sang without shadow of hawk or thought of death,
And the saint happily went about the ways
Filling each home with plenty—his very breath
Was like a little thrilling note of praise.

When all was done he stepped back, childish-wise,
To see and love his handiwork, and then
Came a sharp pain, and pierced him through and through;
He had wrought lovingly for the days of men,
But the heart of men his love could not renew:

The weary heart, the ever-questioning,
The loving, lacking, lonely, incomplete
For ever longing to be merged in one
With something other than itself; to beat
To another's pulse; to be for ever done

With its sad weight of personality.
Then God leaned down to his poor saint, and said:
"Dear soul, would you make heaven upon the earth:
Nor know indeed My purpose in all birth,
Nor that My blessing is upon the dead?"

RUPERT BROOKE

April 1915

You that are gone into the dark
Of unknowing and unbeing;
You that have heard the song of the lark,
You that have seen the joy of