TO EDWARD THOMAS

HERE in the North we speak of you, And dream (and wish the dream were true) That when the evening has grown late You will appear outside our gate— As though some Gipsy-Scholar yet Sought this far place that men forget; Or some tall hero still unknown, Out of the Mabinogion, Were seen at nightfall looking in, Passing mysteriously to win His earlier earth, his ancient mind, Where man was true and life more kind Lived with the mountains and the trees And other steadfast presences, Where large and simple passions gave The insight and the peace we crave, And he no more had nigh forgot The old high battles he had fought. Ah, pause to-night outside our gate And enter ere it is too late To see the garden's deep on deep And talk a little ere we sleep. When you were here a year ago I told you of a glorious woe, The ancient woe of Gunnar dead And its proud train of men long sped, Fit brothers to your noble thoughts; Then, as their shouts and Gunnar's shouts Went down once more undyingly And the fierce saga was put by, I told you of my old desire To light again that bygone fire, To body Hallgerd's ruinous Great hair and wrangling mouth for us, And hear her voice deny again That hair to Gunnar in his pain. Because your heart could understand The hopes of their primeval land, The hearts of dim heroic forms Made clear by tenderness and storms, You caught my glow and urged me on; So now the tale is once more done I turn to you, I bring my play, Longing, O friend, to hear you say I have not dwarfed those olden things Nor tarnisht by my furbishings. I bring my play, I turn to you And wish it might to-night be true That you would seek this old small house Twixt laurel boughs and apple boughs; Then I would give it, bravely manned, To you, and with my play my hand.