I

Because the night was falling warm and still 
Upon a golden day at April?s end, 
I thought; I will go up the hill once more 
To find the face of him that I have lost, 
And speak with him before his ghost has flown
Far from the earth that might not keep him long. 

So down the road I went, pausing to see 
How slow the dusk drew on, and how the folk 
Loitered about their doorways, well-content 
With the fine weather and the waxing year.
The miller?s house, that glimmered with grey walls, 
Turned me aside; and for a while I leaned 
Along the tottering rail beside the bridge 
To watch the dripping mill-wheel green with damp. 
The miller peered at me with shadowed eyes
And pallid face: I could not hear his voice 
For sound of the weir?s plunging. He was old. 
His days went round with the unhurrying wheel. 

Moving along the street, each side I saw 
The humble, kindly folk in lamp-lit rooms;
Children at table; simple, homely wives; 
Strong, grizzled men; and soldiers back from war, 
Scaring the gaping elders with loud talk. 

Soon all the jumbled roofs were down the hill, 
And I was turning up the grassy lane
That goes to the big, empty house that stands 
Above the town, half-hid by towering trees. 
I looked below and saw the glinting lights: 
I heard the treble cries of bustling life, 
And mirth, and scolding; and the grind of wheels.
An engine whistled, piercing-shrill, and called 
High echoes from the sombre slopes afar; 
Then a long line of trucks began to move. 

It was quite still; the columned chestnuts stood 
Dark in their noble canopies of leaves.
I thought: `A little longer I?ll delay, 
And then he?ll be more glad to hear my feet, 
And with low laughter ask me why I?m late. 
The place will be too dim to show his eyes, 
But he will loom above me like a tree,
With lifted arms and body tall and strong.? 

There stood the empty house; a ghostly hulk 
Becalmed and huge, massed in the mantling dark, 
As builders left it when quick-shattering war 
Leapt upon France and called her men to fight. 
Lightly along the terraces I trod, 
Crunching the rubble till I found the door 
That gaped in twilight, framing inward gloom. 
An owl flew out from under the high eaves 
To vanish secretly among the firs,
Where lofty boughs netted the gleam of stars. 
I stumbled in; the dusty floors were strewn 
With cumbering piles of planks and props and beams; 
Tall windows gapped the walls; the place was free 
To every searching gust and jousting gale;
But now they slept; I was afraid to speak, 
And heavily the shadows crowded in. 

I called him, once; then listened: nothing moved: 
Only my thumping heart beat out the time. 
Whispering his name, I groped from room to room. 

Quite empty was that house; it could not hold 
His human ghost, remembered in the love 
That strove in vain to be companioned still. 

II

Blindly I sought the woods that I had known 
So beautiful with morning when I came 
Amazed with spring that wove the hazel twigs 
With misty raiment of awakening green. 
I found a holy dimness, and the peace 
Of sanctuary, austerely built of trees, 
And wonder stooping from the tranquil sky. 

Ah! but there was no need to call his name. 
He was beside me now, as swift as light. 
I knew him crushed to earth in scentless flowers, 
And lifted in the rapture of dark pines. 
`For now,? he said, `my spirit has more eyes
Than heaven has stars; and they are lit by love. 
My body is the magic of the world, 
And dawn and sunset flame with my spilt blood. 
My breath is the great wind, and I am filled 
With molten power and surge of the bright waves 
That chant my doom along the ocean?s edge. 

`Look in the faces of the flowers and find 
The innocence that shrives me; stoop to the stream 
That you may share the wisdom of my peace. 
For talking water travels undismayed. 
The luminous willows lean to it with tales 
Of the young earth; and swallows dip their wings 
Where showering hawthorn strews the lanes of light. 

`I can remember summer in one thought 
Of wind-swept green, and deeps of melting blue, 
And scent of limes in bloom; and I can hear 
Distinct the early mower in the grass, 
Whetting his blade along some morn of June. 

`For I was born to the round world?s delight, 
And knowledge of enfolding motherhood,
Whose tenderness, that shines through constant toil, 
Gathers the naked children to her knees. 
In death I can remember how she came 
To kiss me while I slept; still I can share 
The glee of childhood; and the fleeting gloom 
When all my flowers were washed with rain of tears. 

`I triumph in the choruses of birds, 
Bursting like April buds in gyres of song. 
My meditati