The Revisitation
       &nbsp As I lay awake at night-time
In an ancient country barrack known to ancient cannoneers,
And recalled the hopes that heralded each seeming brave and bright time
       &nbsp   Of my primal purple years,

       &nbsp   Much it haunted me that, nigh there,
I had borne my bitterest loss—when One who went, came not again;
In a joyless hour of discord, in a joyless-hued July there -
       &nbsp   A July just such as then.

       &nbsp  And as thus I brooded longer,
With my faint eyes on the feeble square of wan-lit window frame,
A quick conviction sprung within me, grew, and grew yet stronger,
       &nbsp  That the month-night was the same,

       &nbsp  Too, as that which saw her leave me
On the rugged ridge of Waterstone, the peewits plaining round;
And a lapsing twenty years had ruled that—as it were to grieve me -
       &nbsp  I should near the once-loved ground.

       &nbsp  Though but now a war-worn stranger
Chance had quartered here, I rose up and descended to the yard.
All was soundless, save the troopers' horses tossing at the manger,
       &nbsp  And the sentry keeping guard.
       &nbsp   Through the gateway I betook me
Down the High Street and beyond the lamps, across the battered bridge,
Till the country darkness clasped me and the friendly shine forsook me,
       &nbsp   And I bore towards the Ridge,


       &nbsp  With a dim unowned emotion
Saying softly: "Small my reason, now at midnight, to be here . . .
Yet a sleepless swain of fifty with a brief romantic notion
       &nbsp   May retrace a track so dear."

       &nbsp   Thus I walked with thoughts half-uttered
Up the lane I knew so well, the grey, gaunt, lonely Lane of Slyre;
And at whiles behind me, far at sea, a sullen thunder muttered
       &nbsp   As I mounted high and higher.

       &nbsp  Till, the upper roadway quitting,
I adventured on the open drouthy downland thinly grassed,
While the spry white scuts of conies flashed before me, earthward flitting,
       &nbsp   And an arid wind went past.

       &nbsp   Round about me bulged the barrows
As before, in antique silence—immemorial funeral piles -
Where the sleek herds trampled daily the remains of flint-tipt arrows
       &nbsp  Mid the thyme and chamomiles;
       &nbsp  And the Sarsen stone there, dateless,
On whose breast we had sat and told the zephyrs many a tender vow,
Held the heat of yester sun, as sank thereon one fated mateless
       &nbsp   From those far fond hours till now.

       &nbsp  Maybe flustered by my presence
Rose the peewits, just as all those years back, wailing soft and loud,
And revealing their pale pinions like a fitful phosphorescence
       &nbsp   Up against the cope of cloud,

       &nbsp   Where their dolesome exclamations
Seemed the voicings of the self-same throats I had heard when life was green,
Though since that day uncounted frail forgotten generations
       &nbsp  Of their kind had flecked the scene. -

       &nbsp   And so, living long and longer
In a past that lived no more, my eyes discerned there, suddenly,
That a figure broke the skyline—first in vague contour, then stronger,
       &nbsp   And was crossing near to me.

       &nbsp   Some long-missed familiar gesture,
Something wonted, struck me in the figure's pause to list and heed,
Till I fancied from its handling of its loosely wrapping vesture
       &nbsp   That it might be She indeed.

       &nbsp   'Twas not reasonless: below there
In the vale, had been her home; the nook might hold her even yet,
And the downlands were her father's fief; she still might come and go there;
       &nbsp   So I rose, and said, "Agnette!"
       &nbsp   With a little leap, half-frightened,
She withdrew some steps; then letting intuition smother fear
In a place so long-accustomed, and as one whom thought enlightened,
       &nbsp  She replied: "What—THAT voice?—here!"

       &nbsp   "Yes, Agnette!—And did the occasion
Of our marching hither make you think I MIGHT walk where we two—'
"O, I often come," she murmured with a moment's coy evasion,
       &nbsp   "('Tis not far),—and—think of you."

       &nbsp   Then I took her hand, and led her
To the ancient people's stone whereon I had sat. There now sat we;
And together talked, until the first reluctant shyness fled her,
       &nbsp   And she spoke confidingly.

       &nbsp   "It is JUST as ere we parted!"
Said she, brimming high with joy.—"And when, then, came you here, and why?"
"—Dear, I could not sleep for thinking of our trystings when twin-hearted."
       &nbsp   She responded, "Nor could I.

       &nbsp   "There are few things I would rather
Than be wandering at this spirit-hour—lone-lived, my kindred dead -
On this wold of well-known feature I inherit from my father:
       &nbsp   Night or day, I have no dread . . .

       &nbsp   "O I wonder, wonder whether
Any heartstring bore a signal-thrill between us twain or no? -
Some such influence can, at times, they say, draw severed souls together."
       &nbsp   I said, "Dear, we'll dream it so."


       &nbsp   Each one's hand the other's grasping,
And a mutual forgiveness won, we sank to silent thought,
A large content in us that seemed our rended lives reclasping,
       &nbsp   And contracting years to nought.

       &nbsp   Till I, maybe overweary
From the lateness, and a wayfaring so full of strain and stress
For one no longer buoyant, to a peak so steep and eery,
       &nbsp   Sank to slow unconsciousness . . .

       &nbsp   How long I slept I knew not,
But the brief warm summer night had slid when, to my swift surprise,
A red upedging sun, of glory chambered mortals view not,
       &nbsp   Was blazing on my eyes,

       &nbsp   From the Milton Woods to Dole-Hill
All the spacious landscape lighting, and around about my feet
Flinging tall thin tapering shadows from the meanest mound and mole-hill,
       &nbsp   And on trails the ewes had beat.

       &nbsp   She was sitting still beside me,
Dozing likewise; and I turned to her, to take her hanging hand;
When, the more regarding, that which like a spectre shook and tried me
       &nbsp   In her image then I scanned;

       &nbsp   That which Time's transforming chisel
Had been tooling night and day for twenty years, and tooled too well,
In its rendering of crease where curve was, where was raven, grizzle -
       &nbsp   Pits, where peonies once did dwell.

       &nbsp   She had wakened, and perceiving
(I surmise) my sigh and shock, my quite involuntary dismay,
Up she started, and—her wasted figure all throughout it heaving -
       &nbsp   Said, "Ah, yes: I am THUS by day!

       &nbsp   "Can you really wince and wonder
That the sunlight should reveal you such a thing of skin and bone,
As if unaware a Death's-head must of need lie not far under
       &nbsp   Flesh whose years out-count your own?

       &nbsp   "Yes: that movement was a warning
Of the worth of man's devotion!—Yes, Sir, I am OLD," said she,
"And the thing which should increase love turns it quickly into scorning -
       &nbsp   And your new-won heart from me!"

       &nbsp   Then she went, ere I could call her,
With the too proud temper ruling that had parted us before,
And I saw her form descend the slopes, and smaller grow and smaller,
       &nbsp   Till I caught its course no more . . .

       &nbsp   True; I might have dogged her downward;
- But it MAY be (though I know not) that this trick on us of Time
Disconcerted and confused me.—Soon I bent my footsteps townward,
       &nbsp   Like to one who had watched a crime.

       &nbsp   Well I knew my native weakness,
Well I know it still. I cherished her reproach like physic-wine,
For I saw in that emaciate shape of bitterness and bleakness
       &nbsp   A nobler soul than mine.


       &nbsp   Did I not return, then, ever? -
Did we meet again?—mend all?—Alas, what greyhead perseveres! -
Soon I got the Route elsewhither.—Since that hour I have seen her never:
       &nbsp   Love is lame at fifty years.