To A Stranger, Walking

It cannot be that your believing heart
Is unlike mine, or married elsewhere well
To something foreign, feeling felt apart
From each of us; fair as you walk, I fell
All false untruths that we are not the same,
That you, stranger, live in far stranger ways
Than I can know, or play some different game.
I must object, and say we spend our days,
The both of us, but reaching for a dream
We cannot name. In this, we are the same;
And so shall it remain until the gleam
Of Death well blinds us, strips us of our claim.
The human curse of hope connects us one,
While both we walk apart beneath the sun.

In the Foothills

In the foothills, helped along by horses,
The rutted mud-cart wheels of wood and steel
Roll on and up past thatch-hut homes by noon,
Up to where the hill crests in splendid view
And far vales undulate in green commune;
So far until my tired eyes give up
And grow to close and sleep all afternoon,
My head a'rest on muddy wheels of wood,
Till night comes, and I wake beneath the moon.