WE never sang together
Ravenscroft’s terse old tune
On Sundays or on weekdays,
In sharp or summer weather,
At night-time or at noon.
Why did we never sing it,
Why never so incline
On Sundays or on weekdays,
Even when soft wafts would wing it
From your far floor to mine?
Shall we that tune, then, never
Stand voicing side by side
On Sundays or on weekdays? . . .
Or shall we, when for ever
In Sheol we abide,
Sing it in desolation,
As we might long have done
On Sundays or on weekdays
With love and exultation
Before our sands had run?
THE OPPORTUNITY
(FOR H. P.)
FORTY springs back, I recall,
We met at this phase of the Maytime:
We might have clung close through all,
But we parted when died that daytime.
We parted with smallest regret;
Perhaps should have cared but slightly,
Just then, if we never had met:
Strange, strange that we lived so lightly!
Had we mused a little space
At that critical date in the Maytime,
One life had been ours, one place,
Perhaps, till our long cold daytime.
—This is a bitter thing
For thee, O man: what ails it?
The tide of chance may bring
Its offer; but nought avails it!