The cold With steely clutch Grips all the land. .alack The little people in the hills Will die!

Look up . . . From bleakening hills Blows down the light, first breath Of wintry wind . . . look up, and… The snow!

THE old Old winds that blew When chaos was, what do They tell the clattered trees that… Should weep?

Keep thou Thy tearless watch All night but when blue-dawn Breathes on the silver moon, then… Then weep!

If it Were lighter touch Than petal of flower resting On grass, oh still too heavy it we… Too heavy!

In the cold I will rise, I will b… In waters of ice; myself Will shiver, and shrive myself, Alone in the dawn, and anoint Forehead and feet and hands;

Peter stands by the gate, And Michael by the throne. ‘Peter, I would pass the gate And come before the throne.’ ‘Whose spirit prayed never at the…

But me They cannot touch, Old age and death. .the strange And ignominious end of old Dead folk!

The poet pursues his beautiful the… The preacher his golden beatitude; And I run after a vanishing dream… The glittering, will-o’-the-wispis… Of the properly scholarly attitude…

Three grey women walk with me Fate and Grief and Memory. My fate brought grief; my grief mu… With me through Eternity, Such thy power, memory.

Sun and wind and beat of sea, Great lands stretching endlessly’€… Where be bonds to bind the free? All the world was made for me!

These be three silent things: The falling snow . . . the hour Before the dawn . . . the mouth of… Just dead.

For Aubrey Beardsley’s picture Pierrot is dying: Tiptoe in, Finger touched to lip, Harlequin,

Art thou Not kin to him Who loved Mark’s wife and both Died for it? O, thou harper in Green woods?

More dim than wining moon Thy face, mort faint Than is the falling wind Thy voice, yet do Thine eyes most strangely glow,