Now that the grave has shut its door,
And lets not in one ray,
Do they wonder that they meet no more -
That face and its beaming visitor -
That met so many a day?

December 1915.



IN A LONDON FLAT



I

"You look like a widower," she said
Through the folding-doors with a laugh from the bed,
As he sat by the fire in the outer room,
Reading late on a night of gloom,
And a cab-hack's wheeze, and the clap of its feet
In its breathless pace on the smooth wet street,
Were all that came to them now and then . . .
"You really do!" she quizzed again.

II

And the Spirits behind the curtains heard,
And also laughed, amused at her word,
And at her light-hearted view of him.