Cambridge Poets 1900–1913

F . W . Stokoe . My longing has no shape or name, My joy is fleeting as the dew : Who heard a footstep as it came ? Or, when it vanished , knew Which way he might pursue ? At ebbing noon -tide on the hill You come- ah, surely you are there : So near you are , so near - and still I seek you everywhere, Nor find you anywhere. III. Pipe me a silver song, A fleeting strain , Like shining wind along A leafy plain Swift sunlight caught among Shadows and rain. Calling loud and calling still, Over mossy bank and rill , Piping soft and piping shrill . 180