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my letters are like blossoms pale We strew upon a grave with hopeless
tears。 I ask no recompense； I shall not fail Although you do not heed； the
long； sad years Still pass； and still I scatter flowers frail； And whisper
words of love which no one hears。
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A Dome of Many…Coloured Glass
The End
Throughout the echoing chambers of my brain I hear your words in
mournful cadence toll Like some slow passing…bell which warns the soul
Of sundering darkness。 Unrelenting； fain To batter down resistance； fall
again Stroke after stroke； insistent diastole； The bitter blows of truth；
until the whole Is hammered into fact made strangely plain。 Where shall
I look for comfort？ Not to you。 Our worlds are drawn apart； our
spirit's suns Divided； and the light of mine burnt dim。 Now in the
haunted twilight I must do Your will。 I grasp the cup which over…runs；
And with my trembling lips I touch the rim。
The Starling
〃‘I can't get out'； said the starling。〃
Sterne's ‘Sentimental Journey'。
Forever the impenetrable wall Of self confines my poor rebellious
soul； I never see the towering white clouds roll Before a sturdy wind；
save through the small Barred window of my jail。 I live a thrall With
all my outer life a clipped； square hole； Rectangular； a fraction of a
scroll Unwound and winding like a worsted ball。 My thoughts are grown
uneager and depressed Through being always mine； my fancy's wings
Are moulted and the feathers blown away。 I weary for desires never
guessed； For alien passions； strange imaginings； To be some other
person for a day。
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A Dome of Many…Coloured Glass
Market Day
White； glittering sunlight fills the market square； Spotted and
sprigged with shadows。 Double rows Of bartering booths spread out
their tempting shows Of globed and golden fruit； the morning air Smells
sweet with ripeness； on the pavement there A wicker basket gapes and
overflows Spilling out cool； blue plums。 The market glows； And
flaunts； and clatters in its busy care。 A stately minster at the northern side
Lifts its twin spires to the distant sky； Pinnacled； carved and buttressed；
through the wide Arched doorway peals an organ； suddenly Crashing；
triumphant in its pregnant tide； Quenching the square in vibrant harmony。
Epitaph in a Church…Yard in Charleston； South
Carolina
GEORGE AUGUSTUS CLOUGH A NATIVE
OF LIVERPOOL； DIED SUDDENLY OF 〃STRANGER'S FEVER〃
NOV'R 5th 1843 AGED 22
He died of 〃Stranger's Fever〃 when his youth Had scarcely melted
into manhood； so The chiselled legend runs； a brother's woe Laid bare
for epitaph。 The savage ruth Of a sunny； bright； but alien land； uncouth
With cruel caressing dealt a mortal blow； And by this summer sea where
flowers grow In tropic splendor； witness to the truth Of ineradicable race
he lies。 The law of duty urged that he should roam； Should sail from fog
and chilly airs to skies Clear with deceitful welcome。 He had come
With proud resolve； but still his lonely eyes Ached with fatigue at never
seeing home。
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A Dome of Many…Coloured Glass
Francis II； King of Naples
Written after reading Trevelyan's 〃Garibaldi and the making of Italy〃
Poor foolish monarch； vacillating； vain； Decaying victim of a race of
kings； Swift Destiny shook out her purple wings And caught him in their
shadow； not again Could furtive plotting smear another stain Across his
tarnished honour。 Smoulderings Of sacrificial fires burst their rings
And blotted out in smoke his lost domain。 Bereft of courtiers； only with
his queen； From empty palace down to empty quay。 No challenge
screamed from hostile carabine。 A single vessel waited； shadowy； All
night she ploughed her solitary way Beneath the stars； and through a
tranquil sea。
To John Keats
Great master！ Boyish； sympathetic man！ Whose orbed and ripened
genius lightly hung From life's slim； twisted tendril and there swung In
crimson…sphered completeness； guardian Of crystal portals through whose
openings fan The spiced winds which blew when earth was young；
Scattering wreaths of stars； as Jove once flung A golden shower from
heights cerulean。 Crumbled before thy majesty we bow。 Forget thy
empurpled state； thy panoply Of greatness； and be merciful and near； A
youth who trudged the highroad we tread now Singing the miles behind
him； so may we Faint throbbings of thy music overhear。
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A Dome of Many…Coloured Glass
The Boston Athenaeum
The Boston Athenaeum
Thou dear and well…loved haunt of happy hours； How often in some
distant gallery； Gained by a little painful spiral stair； Far from the halls and
corridors where throng The crowd of casual readers； have I passed Long；
peaceful hours seated on the floor Of some retired nook； all lined with
books； Where reverie and quiet reign supreme！ Above； below； on every
side； high shelved From careless grasp of transient interest； Stand books
we can but dimly see； their charm Much greater that their titles are unread；
While on a level with the dusty floor Others are ranged in orderly
confusion； And we must stoop in painful posture while We read their
names and learn their histories。 The little gallery winds round about The
middle of a most secluded room； Midway between the ceiling an