Page:Barham Beach - a poem of regeneration.djvu/51

 T was eve, twas the hour when the Angelus, ringing Soft o’er the streamlets and low o’er the leas, Sang of rest to the weary earth, censerlike swinging Palpitant blessing and balm on the breeze,— Sweetly it chimed over Barham Beach, bringing Peace for a moment to stricken Louise.

’Gainst a pale yellow sunset she stood, careless leaning Where rustic and lichened a gate barred the way, And on either hand pine trees were black damascening The western expanse primrose golden and gay, Ebon black was her robe, but great poppies went straying Golden, magnificent, over its sheen, Dark as midnight her hair gloomed, and ringlets were playing Round the gold comb like the crest of a queen, And the black of her eyes was what one in the gloaming Sees in a fern-feathered wood-fountain’s deep, A black where yet late little glints go a-roaming Ere night s nursing tenderness rocks them to sleep, And so staglike the lift of her head was, so stately The fearless straight glance and her whole haughty grace, One had met her with homage, nor deemed that but lately She had writhed in the modern rack s iron embrace.

There are seasons when nulled is all power of sensation, When spirit and substance have fretted so long Frayed out for the nonce are alike indignation, Grief, horror, and hope, and the sting of shame s thong,