The publisher of this book utilises modern printing technologies as well as photocopying processes for reprinting and preserving rare works of literature that are out-of-print or on the verge of becoming lost. This book is one such reprint.

CONTENTS BY THE AURELIAN WALL, 9 THE WHITE GULL, 15 THE COUNTRY OF HAR, 32 To RICHARD LOVELACE, 42 A SEAMARK, 44 THE WORD OF THE WATER, 57 PHILLIPS BROOKS, 59 JOHN ELIOT BOWEN, 64 HENRY GEORGE, 67 ILICET, 70 To RAPHAEL, 76 To P. V., 82 A NORSE CHILDS REQUIEM, 87 IN THE HEART OF THE HILLS, 91 AN AFTERWORD, 96 SEVEN WIND SONGS, 102 ANDREW STRATON, 112 THE GRAVE-TREE, 127 BY THE AURELIAN WALL In Memory ofJohn Keats BY the Aurelian Wall, Where the long shadows of the centuries fall From Caius Cestius tomb, A weary mortal seeking rest found room For quiet burial, Leaving among his friends A book of lyrics. Such untold amends A traveller might make In a strange country, bidden to partake Before he farther wends By Who shyly should bestow the Aurelian Wall The foreign reed-flute they had seen him blow And finger cunningly, On one of the dark children standing by, Then lift his cloak and go. The years pass. And the child Thoughtful beyond his fellows, grave and mild, Treasures the rough-made toy, Until one day he blows it for clear joy, And wakes the music wild. His fondness makes it seem A thing first fashioned in delirious dream, Some god had cut and tried, And filled with yearning passion, and cast aside On some far woodland stream, 10 By After long years to be the Aurelian Wall Found by the stranger and brought over sea, A marvel and delight To ease the noon and pierce the dark blue night, For children such as he. He learns the silver strain Wherewith the ghostly houses of gray rain And lonely valleys ring, When the untroubled whitethroats make the spring A world without a stain Then on his river reed, With strange and unsuspected notes that plead Of their own wild accord For utterances nobirds throat could afford, Lifts it to human need. ii By the Atirelian Wall His comrades leave their play, When calling and compelling far away By river-slope and hill, He pipes their wayward footsteps where he will, All the long lovely day. Even his elders come. Surely the child is elvish, murmur some, And shake the knowing head Give us the good old simple things instead, Our fathers used to hum. Others at the open door Smile when they hear what they have hearkened for These many summers now, Believing they Things should live to learn somehow never known before. 12 By the Aurelian Wall But he can only tell How the flutes whisper lures him with a spell, Yet always just eludes The lost perfection over which he broods And how he loves it well. Till all the country-side, Familiar with his piping far and wide, Has taken for its own That weird enchantment down the evening blown, Its glory and its pride. And so his splendid name, Who left the book of lyrics and small fame Among his fellows then, Spreads through the world like autumn who knows when Till all the hillsides flame.