Glad for the murmur of his hard renown,
Year after year he shambled through the town,—
A loveless exile moving with a staff;
And oftentimes there crept into his ears
A sound of alien pity, touched with tears,—
And then (and only then) did Aaron laugh.
THE DEAD VILLAGE
Here there is death. But even here, they say—
Here where the dull sun shines this afternoon
As desolate as ever the dead moon
Did glimmer on Dead Sardis—men were gay;
And there were little children here to play,
With small soft hands that once did keep in tune
The string that stretch from heaven, till too soon
The change came, and the music passed away.
Now there is nothing but the ghosts of things:
No life, no love, no children, and no men;
And over the forgotten place there clings
The strange and unrememberable light
That is in dreams.—The music failed, and then
God frowned, and shut the village from his sight.
BALLADE OF A SHIP
Down by the flash of the restless water
The dim White Ship like a white bird lay;
Laughing at life and the world they sought her,
And out she swung to the silvering bay.
Then off they flew on their roystering way,
And the keen moon fired the light foam flying
Up from the flood where the faint stars play,
And the bones of the brave in the wave are lying.
'Twas a king's fair son with a king's fair daughter,
And full three hundred beside, they say,—
Revelling on for the lone, cold slaughter
So soon to seize them and hide them for aye;