102 MORE POT-POURRI 



best to keep oneself continually occupied, and one 

 realises that though the end cannot be so very far off, 

 yet the natural love of life is very strong indeed, and an 

 immense help. In a little volume of poems called 

 'lonica,' very well known to a few, but which I believe 

 has not spread to a large public, there are two poems 

 which I think strike singularly sympathetic notes. The 

 four lines of ' Remember, ' do they not come home to one 

 with all the tenderness of a message? 



, You come not, as aforetime, to the headstone every day, 

 And I, who died, I do not chide because, my friend, you play ; 

 Only, in playing, think of him who once was kind and dear, 

 And, if you see a beauteous thing, just say/ He is not here.' 



I reverse the position of these poems in the volume, 

 this short one being at the very end, and the following 

 almost in the beginning. I wonder if those who don't 

 know them will like them as much as I do. 



You promise heavens free from strife, 



Pure truth, and perfect change of will ; 

 But sweet, sweet is this human life 

 So sweet I fain would breathe it still ; 

 Your chilly stars I can forego ; 

 This warm, kind world is all I know. 



You say there is no substance here, 



One great reality above ; 

 Back from that void I shrink in fear, 

 And, child-like, hide myself in love; 

 Show me what angels feel. Till then 

 I cling, a mere weak man, to men. 



You bid me lift my mean desires 



From faltering lips and fitful veins, 

 To sexless souls, ideal quires, 

 Unwearied voices, wordless strains ; 

 My mind with fonder welcome owns 

 One dear dead friend's remembered tones. 



