To William Watson After reading "The Purple East." That hour you put the wreath of England by Keats A-Dying Often of that Last Hour I lie and think; I see thee, Keats, nearing the Deathway dimSee Severn in his noiseless hurry, him Who leaned above thee fading on the brink. What is that wild light through the window chink? Is it the burning feet of cherubim ? Or is it the white moon on western rimSaint Agnes' moon beginning now to sink? How did Death come-with sounds of waterstir? With forms of beauty breaking at the lips? With field pipes and the scent of blowing fir? Or came it hurrying like a last eclipse, Sweeping the world away like gossamer, Blotting the moon, the mountains, and the ships? Man Out of the deep and endless universe One to confront the worlds and question them. The Cricket The twilight is the morning of his day, While sleep drops seaward from the fading shore, With purpling sail and dip of silver oar, He cheers the shadowed time with roundelay, Until the dark east softens into gray. Now as the noisy hours are coming — hark! His song dies gently it is growing dark — His night, with its one star, is on the way! Faintly the light breaks over the blowing oats |