The lullaby
You heard some mother croon
Beneath the harvest moon.
Go, hum it in the hive,
The old monks said,
For we were once alive
Who now are dead.


_OUTSIDE THE CARLTON_

The death of the grey withered grass
Of man's is a sign,
And his life is as wine
That is spilt from a half-shivered glass.
At a quarter to nine
Went Dives to dine ...
(Man, it is said, is as grass.)

Riches and plunder had met
To furnish his feast--
Both succulent beast
And fish from the fisherman's net;
While he tasteth of dishes
And all his soul wishes--
Nor knoweth his hour hath been set.

The death of the pale-sodden hay
'Neath the feet of the kine
Is to man for a sign;