He talks of kings and in his eyes at times
I catch parading banners tossing by
He puts to rout my gathering cloud of rhymes
By smiling suddenly and lifting high
His weather-beaten forehead to the sky.
With speculative twists he throws the ball
Of chatter with agility most spry
And keeps the thread, nor loses it at all.

His face is like old oak the sun has burned
To mellow beauty, and his eye is such
That if it suddenly on me is turned
I am aware of things that matter much
In analysing why the common touch
Of sight to sight means more than words may say,
And why the earth may sometimes seem a smutch
Of soot upon the lintel of the day.

He grows in greatness to his words and I
Diminish in their magic to an ear
Existing solely for the thoughts that fly
In colored ardency from him so near
And I so far, thoughts longer than a year
With wisdom heaped on wisdom, yet they pass
As swiftly as a half-unconscious tear
Dropped suddenly upon a heated glass.

He hitches up his one suspender, chews
Tobacco with a ruminating air,
Dissects with equanimity the news
Of warring nations, with a word lays bare
The white nerve-centers of some great affair
And solves the riddle that a statesman died
To find the key to, turns a knowing stare
Upon humanity—and once he sighed.

He sits upon this battered hulk, the earth,
And plays with theory as men with dice.
He knows the nations from their feeble birth
In prehistoric fields of sliding ice.
Through age and age he traces each device
That man perfected for the sake of Man,
And has no need to brood upon them twice,
But places each within its proper plan.

Incompetent he may be for a world
Too eager of delight to know a seer
Who reads the heavens as a sign unfurled
And finds philosophy a spinning drear.
But there are times I feel that gods are near
And through the windows of his eyes a light,
Auspicious, awful and divinely clear,
Glows like the burning bush across the night.

Joan o' the Wad from her own folk goes
With a garland woven of gipsy-rose; 
The palms of her hands and the palms of her feet 
Are dark with the stain of bitter-sweet. 
Here and there in her tresses brown 
Tosses a feather of thistle-down: 
About her waist for a girdle green 
She has threaded buds of the argentine. 

Between her breasts for a posy fair,
She has set a handful of maidenhair; 
About her neck for a torque of gold 
A chain of buttercups, fold on fold 
She has bound and wound; and she looks like spring — 
Joan o' the Wad gone wandering 
From the wild brown moor to the deep-walled town, 
Joan o' the Wad in her lime-green gown. 

The apple-bird on the apple-bough 
Whistles with no one to fret him now, 
With cry and chirrup more shrill and clear 
Than his own love-song in the spring o' the year. 
The laden bees going back to the hive 
Joan o' the Wad no more will drive: 
The peach grows red and the pear grows dun, 
With none to cover them up from the sun. 

She has left the cattle unmilked in chall; 
And the miners laugh as they go to bal. 
No more afraid of her pisky eyes 
Where life like the lightning comes and dies — 
And sorrow moves like a leaf, astir 
In a pool where the wind has drownéd her; 
And laughter leaps as the bubbles come 
On fishless ponds covered thick with scum. 

But lads at twilight are fain to hear 
A soft word said in their listening ear; 
And fain to see what they see no more — 
A green gown gleam by the stable-door. 
For towns are many and towns are full; 
But here in the country the water's cool, 
And honey's sweet and the hearts are deep. 
And the Pisky-loves are the loves to keep.