LXV. THE COMMON GRAVE LAST night beneath the foreign stars I stood, Each in the vesture of its own distress. Among them there came One, frail as a sigh, Dug with her bleeding hands. She neither cried And dead that lay unburied at her side. All night she toiled; and at that time of dawn, When Day and Night do change their More and Less, And Day is more, I saw the melting Dark Stir to the last, and knew she laboured on. LXVI. HOME: IN WAR-TIME. SHE turned the fair page with her fairer hand- Sings through a brake of bells, so murmured she, She fed his favourite bird. "Ah, Robin, sing! Smiles all her soul for him who cannot hear The raven croaking at his carrion car. LXVII. DON QUIXOTE. BEHIND thy pasteboard, on thy battered hack, Some fire of thine might burn within us still! LXVIII. THE SEA CAVE. HARDLY we breathe, although the air be free: LXIX. ANGLING. Go, take thine angle, and with practised line, Still persevere; the giddiest breeze that blows, Out of some pebble with the stream at strife, Or that the light wind dallied with the boughs? Thou art successful;-such is human life. |