Chapter III

I would know why you lift your head of a sudden, like this,
And turn it (so finely poised) till the light picks out
The shape of your moulded neck, of your hair so sweet to kiss,
And the line of your forehead and nose and lips that pout.

Now are they blue as night, your veiled large eyes,
But pale fire lights them, fire o’ the moon.
Oh, why do you gasp, with little tangled cries,
And why do you seize my hand to let it fall so soon?

1911.

_West End Lane_

Now through the dripping, moonless night,
Up West End Lane and Frognal Rise,
They trace their footsteps by the light
Of love that fills their weary eyes.

“Nellie, though Town’s a tiresome place,
With far less joy in it than tears,
To set my lips to your warm face
Is worth a sight of dismal years!”

“And I’m so happy, Jack, with you,”
She whispers softly.... “See, the rain
Has stopped, the clouds are broken through,
The stars are shining clear again!”

Pausing, they gaze across the Heath
Submerged in fog—a dim hush’d lake
Wherein the wretched might seek death,
And lovers drown for dear Love’s sake.

Then clasping hands, and touching lips,
They dream beneath great sombre trees,
Whence large and solemn-falling drips
Are shaken by the restless breeze.

“Oh, nothing’s half so sweet, my dear,
As kisses in the quiet night:
Lean close, and let me hold you near,
Put out your arms, and clasp me tight!

“Why, should we wait, so cold and wise?
We’re only human, Nell, we two;
And even if love fades and dies—
I shall remember this: won’t you?”

_Hampstead_

I

Up from the desolate streets—the green, sweet hill!
(All crossed with scented paths, shut in by garden walls
And hung with shadowy trees—dark paths and still.)
O, open plateau, glittering pond, and love that calls!

Here, ah! here, to be gods, to forget!
Here to leave home and troubles that soil and blear.
Under the golden moon, when the sun has set,
Here to forget and kiss—O joy bought dear!

II

I love those small old houses, with bright front doors,
And shy windows that look on the Heath; they are quiet and gay:
Old books, old silver they have (that my heart adores)
And their women are slim, with soft voices; and kind things they say.

Their lives are one exquisite tea—with the lamp unlit,
In autumn and winter. In summer a rose
Climbs in through the open window, caressing it;
And always there are petit-fours, music, and dreams—and repose.

III

Fields where the ugly, with divine-grown eyes
Bloom all to beauty of soft look and word.

Trees, amorous trees, that fold maternal arms
Over joined lips, and halting vows half-heard.