href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@37860@[email protected]#p71" class="pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">Faith          A Fresh Morning          Interior
1913-14  On a Friend Recently Dead
1916  The March          Prologue: In Darkness          The Lily of Malud
1917  A House          Behind the Lines          Arab Song          The Stronghold          To a Bull-Dog          The Lake          Paradise Lost          Acacia Tree          August Moon          Sonnet          Song          A Generation          Under          Rivers          I Shall make Beauty...          Envoi

IN A CHAIR

The room is full of the peace of night,
    The small flames murmur and flicker and sway,
Within me is neither shadow, nor light,
    Nor night, nor twilight, nor dawn, nor day.

For the brain strives not to the goal of thought,
    And the limbs lie wearied, and all desire
Sleeps for a while, and I am naught
    But a pair of eyes that gaze at a fire.

A DAY

I. MORNING

The village fades away
    Where I last night came,
Where they housed me and fed me
    And never asked my name.

The sun shines bright, my step is light,
    I, who have no abode,
Jeer at the stuck, monotonous
    Black posts along the road.

II. MIDDAY

The wood is still,
    As here I sit
My heart drinks in
    The peace of it.

A something stirs
    I know not where,
Some quiet spirit
    In the air.

O tall straight stems!
    O cool deep green!
O hand unfelt!
    O face unseen!

III. EVENING

The evening closes in,
    As down this last long lane
I plod; there patter round
    First heavy drops of rain.

Feet ache, legs ache, but now
    Step quickens as I think
Of mounds of bread and cheese
    And something hot to drink.

IV. NIGHT

Ah! sleep is sweet, but yet
    I will not sleep awhile
Nor for a space forget
    The toil of that last mile;

But lie awake and feel
    The cool sheets' tremulous kisses
O'er all my body steal...
    Is sleep as sweet as this is?

THE ROOF

I

When the clouds hide the sun away
The tall slate roof is dull and grey,
And when the rain adown it streams
'Tis polished lead with pale-blue gleams.

When the clouds vanish and the rain
Stops, and the sun comes out again,
It shimmers golden in the sun
Almost too bright to look upon.

But soon beneath the steady rays
The roof is dried and reft of blaze,
'Tis dusty yellow traversed through
By long thin lines of deepest blue.

Then at the last, as night draws near,
The lines grow faint and disappear,
The roof becomes a purple mist,
A great square darkening amethyst

Which sinks into the gathering shade
Till separate form and colour fade,
And it is but a patch which mars
The beauty of a field of stars.

II

It stands so lonely in the sky
The sparrows never come thereby,
The glossy starlings seldom stop
To preen and chatter on the top.

For a whole week sometimes up there
No wing-wave stirs the quiet air,
The roof lies silent and serene
As though no life had ever been;

Till some bright afternoon, athwart
The edge two sudden shadows dart,
And two white pigeons with pink feet
Flutter above and pitch on it.

Jerking their necks out as they walk
They talk awhile their pigeon-talk,
A low continuous murmur blent
Of mock reproaches and content.

Then cease, and sit there warm and white
An hour, till in the fading light
They wake, and know the