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1861–1923

vi

Maurice Henry Hewlett

Now would you prove the man I love As I saw him then? He was of them who're slow to move, One of your still men;

One of your men self-communing Who see sheep on a hill, Ships out at sea or birds a-wing Where you see nil.

And what they see they seldom say, Holding speech to be vain; And yet so kin to earth are they They smell the coming rain.

The earth can teach them without speech, They know as they are known — Why should they preach to the out-of-reach, Or counsel Nature's own?

He never was a man to talk, He was too wise; But things he'd see out on his walk Would blind another's eyes.

But when it came to speak about them ‘ Twas another thing. He'd say, “What use is it to shout them? I want to sing!”

A smallish head, with jet-black hair And eyes grey-blue, You felt when'er he lookt you fair That he must be true;

And when he smil'd his dear and shy way Sidelong his mouth, I always thought the sun fell my way And the wind South.

So I possest the knowledge blest That Love had held him fast Since the day our eyes confest, The first time and the last.

“Since then,” he said, “I never durst Look at you at all, For fear you'd see the hunger and thirst That kept me like a thrall.

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vi · Maurice Henry Hewlett · Poetry Cove