NEW POEMS
This is his country's guardian,
The outmost sentry of peace.
This is the man
Who gives up that is lovely in living
For the means to live.
Poetry cunningly gilds
The life of the light-keeper.
Held on high in the blackness
In the burning kernel of night,
The seaman sees and blesses him.
The Poet, deep in a sonnet,
Numbers his inky fingers
Fitly to praise him.
Only we behold him,
Sitting, patient and stolid
Martyr to a salary.
CXCIII
THE DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS
THREE yellow slaves were set to swing
The doorway curtain to and fro,
With rustle of light folds and ring
Of little bells that hung below;
The still, hot night was tempered so.
And ever, from the carven bed,
She watched the labour of the men;
And saw the band of moonlight spread,
Leap up upon her feet and then
Leap down upon the floor again;
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