Allures,  but  to  delude,  and  break  our

hearts,
Or  worse  than  break  them,  when  the

soul  departs
Of  nobleness,  that  dwelt  in  us  erewhile  ?

Or  does  she  seem  to  us  what  we  desire,
Though  herself  true,  and    hating    all

deceit.
And  all  we  hear  is  but  our  own  heart's

beat,
And  all  we  see  but  what  our  dreams

inspire  ?

SCATTERED

Scattered  to  East  and  West  and  North,
Some  with  the  faint  heart,  some  the

stout,
Each  to  the  battle  of  life  went  forth.
And  all  alone  we  must  fight  it  out.
We  had  been  gathered  from  cot  and

grange.
From    the    moorland   farm,    and   the

terraced  street.
Brought  together  by  chances  strange.
And  knit  together  by  friendships  sweet.
Not  in  the  sunshine,  not  in  the  rain.
Not  in  the  night  of  the  stars  untold.
Shall  we  ever  all  meet  again.
Or  be  as  we  were  in  the  days  of  old.
But  as  ships  cross,  and  more  cheerily  go
Having  changed  tidings  upon  the  sea.
So  I  am  richer  by  them,  I  know.
And  they  are  not  poorer,  I  trust,  by  me.
WAITING

Wearily  drag  the  lagging  hours

To  him  who,  waiting  to  be  hired.
Is  by  enforced  idlesse  tired

More  than  by  strain  of  all  his  powers :

Wearily,  having  in  his  heart

The  hope  to  play  a  worthy  part.
And  scorning  each  ignoble  art.
Girt  for  the  fight,  he  waits  forlorn.
And  oh  !  it  irks  him  sore  to  rest.
And  watch,  too  oft  with  mocking  jest.
Things  done  that  fill  his  soul  with  scorn,
As  he  with  folded  hands  must  sit.
While  lesser  men,  with  scanty  wit.
Get  all  the  work,  and  tangle  it.
So  life  grows  bitter ;  or  perhaps
Hope  flirts  a  moment  in  his  face.
Then  trips  off  to  another  place.
