Along the west way of the wood,
When light doth gild its floor,
My spirit saith, “O solitude!”
And shuts her chamber door;
And doth a solemn silence keep.
I think that she doth pray,
But whether she doth smile or weep
I may not know nor say.
My body standeth still, mine eyes
About the hills do range;
I shall not know her mysteries,
For they are passing strange;
But the eve falleth, quiet as death,
Or as a faery’s glance;
When from her door she issueth
She is all radiance.
1916.