Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.
Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,
Standing as when I drew near to the town
Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,
Even to the original air-blue gown!
Or is it only the breeze in its listlessness
Travelling across the wet mead to me here,
You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness,
Heard no more again far or near?
Thus I; faltering forward,
Leaves around me falling,
Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward,
And the woman calling.
To A Sea-Cliff
(Durlston Head) Lend me an ear While I read you here A page from your history, Old cliff—not known To your solid stone, Yet yours inseparably. Near to your crown There once sat down A silent listless pair; And the sunset ended, And dark descended, And still the twain sat there. Past your jutting head Then a line-ship sped, Lit brightly as a city; And she sobbed: "There goes A man who knows I am his, beyond God's pity!" He slid apart Who had thought her heart His own, and not aboard A bark, sea-bound. . . . That night they found Between them lay a sword.