Under bents that quiver
There rest we.



FAINTHEART IN A RAILWAY TRAIN



At nine in the morning there passed a church,
At ten there passed me by the sea,
At twelve a town of smoke and smirch,
At two a forest of oak and birch,
And then, on a platform, she:

A radiant stranger, who saw not me.
I queried, "Get out to her do I dare?"
But I kept my seat in my search for a plea,
And the wheels moved on. O could it but be
That I had alighted there!



AT MOONRISE AND ONWARDS



I thought you a fire
On Heron-Plantation Hill,
Dealing out mischief the most dire