Wrought not more tenderly than I would, now,

To turn some changing syllables of praise

For her whose quiet beauty fills my days.

[23]

[23]

VI

THE TOWNSMAN

Here would I leave some subtle part of me,

A moving presence through the friendly Town,

Abiding still, and happy still to be

Where thoughtful men pass daily up and down;—

An essence stirring on the ways they fare,

Haunting the drifted sunlight where they go,

Till one might mark a Something on the air,

Most near and kind—though why, he would not know.

Happy, if it may chance, where two shall meet,

Pausing to pass the friendly, idle word,

In the hushed twilight of the evening street,

I might stand by, a secret, silent Third,—

Most happy listener, if I hear them tell

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