NOVEMBER 101 



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. 



Forsooth, the present we must give 

 To that which cannot pass away ; 

 All beauteous things for which we live 

 By laws of time and space decay. 

 But oh, the very reason why 

 I clasp them is because they die. 



Great grief, like great joy, has a right to be selfish for 

 a time, at any rate. Everyone recognises this, and in fact 

 wishes to minister to it so long as the selfishness does 

 not extend, as it were, to the grief itself or to a feeling of 

 rebellion against the inevitable, which tends to hardness 

 and paralyses the sympathy of friends and relations. 

 ' To the old sorrow is sorrow, to the young it is despair.' 

 We must not forget this. The highest ideal of how to 



