Francis Joseph Sherman: Verses about Home

I question not, Belovèd, nor deny
That you had God’s own right of punishment;
Yet now my sins and days are over and spent
Find you the hours so pleasant that go by?
Would not the color of the fields and sky,

The odor of the woods, bring more content
Now, if a little pity had been lent
Then, unto love, to judge a life awry?
Upon a day the young June grasses seem
Quite still that keep the edge of the still stream;

I think you go down close to them, and say:
“O little grasses, waiting patiently,
I come to tell you this is God’s decree:
‘I comfort him who suffered yesterday.’”

She pauseth; and as each great mirror swings
(O ruined Helen, O once golden hair)
I see Œnone’s ashes scattered there.
Another, and, behold, the shadowed things
Are violated tombs of shrunken kings.


And yet another (O, how thou wert fair!),
And I see one, black-clad, who prayeth where
No sound of sword on cloven helmet rings.
Yet, were I Paris, once more should I see
Troy’s seaward gates for us swung open wide.


Or old Nile’s glory, were I Anthony.
Or were I Launcelot, the garden-side
At Joyous Gard. Surely; for even to me,
Where Love hath lived hath Beauty never died.

Remembering most the old, eternal days,
I cannot curse our life—thy life and mine;
But now, perceiving its complex design,
I go on my intolerable ways,
And, blaming me the more, give thee more praise.

—I dared to think that such a love as thine
Were bounded by each little curve and line
My hand might limn!—by my blind yeas and nays!
And now I say not where thy paths shall be,
Or who shall go or come at thy least call;


Only I know that when thy footsteps fall
Across the silences that cover me,
Both God and I shall deem it best of all
Love liveth yet on earth for such as thee.

Though all the light were lifted from the land,
And a great darkness lay upon the sea;
Though, groping each for some not-careless hand,
I felt sad men pass over wearily;
Though it were certain dawn would not come in
With the next hour; that after many days
Would no moon rise where the grey clouds grew thin,
Nor any stars resume their ancient ways:
Though all my world was thus, and I more blind
Than the dead, blundering planets raining past,
I know I should not fancy Time unkind;
For you, as once of old you came, at last
Would surely come, and with unfaltering faith
Lead me beyond the dominance of death.

It is not that I now were happier
If with the dawn my tireless feet were led
Along her path, till I saw her fair head
Thrown back to make the sunshine goldener:
For it is well, sometimes, the things that were

Are over, ere their perfectness hath fled;
Lest the old love of them should fade instead,
And lie like ruins round the throne of her.
Now with the wisdom of increasing years
I know each ancient joy a cup for tears;


Yet had I drunk, while they were draughts to praise,
Deeper, I were not now as men that grow
Old, and sit gazing out across the snow
To dream sad dreams of wasted summer days

I had not thought (ah, God! had I but known!)
That this sad hour should ever me befall,
When thou I judged the holiest of all
Should come to be the thing I must disown.
Was it not true? that April morn? thy blown


Gold hair around my hair for coronal?
Or is this truer?—thou at the outer wall,
Unroyal, and with unrepentant moan?
Yet prize I now this wisdom I have won,
Who must always remember? Nay! My tears


Must close mine eyes—as thou wouldst hide thy face
If some great meteor, kindred to the sun,
Should haunt the undying stars ten million years
To fall, some noon, dead in thy market place.

When in the old years I had dreams of thee
Thy dark walls stood in a most barren place;
And he within (was his wan face my face?)
Wandered alone and wept continually.
There was no bird to hear, nor sun to see,

Nor green thing growing; nor for his release
Came sleep; neither forgetfulness nor peace:
Whereby I knew that none had sinned as he.
To-day I met him where white lilies gleam;
Across our path we watched the sparrows flit;


Until—the sunlight strong in our dry eyes—
He paused with me beside a green-edged stream,
Moaning, “I know, where its young waters rise,
Remembering, one leaneth over it.”

Was it last Autumn only, when I stood
At the field’s edge, and watched the red glow creep
Among the leaves, and saw the swift flame sweep
From spruce to hemlock, till the living wood
Became a devastated solitude?


For now, behold, old seeds, long years asleep,
Wake; and a legion of young birches leap
To life, and tell the ashes life is good.
O Love of long ago, when this mad fire
Is over, and the ruins of my soul


With the Spring wind the old quest would resume,—
When age knocks at the inn of youth’s desire,
Shall the new growth, now worthier of the goal,
Find still untenanted the chosen room?

Though all the light were lifted from the land,
And a great darkness lay upon the sea;
Though, groping each for some not-careless hand,
I felt sad men pass over wearily;
Though it were certain dawn would not come in

With the next hour; that after many days
Would no moon rise where the gray clouds grew thin,
Nor any stars resume their ancient ways:
Though all my world was thus, and I more blind
Than the dead, blundering planets raining past,

I know I should not fancy Time unkind;
For you, as once of old you came, at last
Would surely come, and with unfaltering faith
Lead me beyond the dominance of death.

O ye disconsolate and heavy-souled,
That evening cometh when ye too shall learn
The pangs of one who may no more return,
To live again the uneven days of old.
Ye too shall weary of the myrrh and gold


(Seeing the gods and their great unconcern),
And, as I year to-day, your feet shall yearn
To touch that Earth which ye afar behold.
Think now upon your grievous things to bear,—
Some goal unwon, some old sin’s lurid stain,


Your vistaed paths,—are they not fair as hope?
But I between dead suns must peer, and grope
Among forsaken worlds, one glimpse to gain
Of my old place—the heaviest shadow there.

Often between the midnight and the morn
I wake and see the angels round my bed;
Then fall asleep again, well-comforted.
I wait not now till that clear dawn be born
Shall lead my feet (O Love, thine eyes are worn

With watching) where her feet have late been led;
Nor lie awake, saying the words she said—
(Her yellow hair.—Have ye seen yellow corn?)
I fall asleep and dream and quite forget,
For here in heaven I know a new love’s birth


Which casteth out all memory. And yet
(As I had loved her more, O Christ, on earth,
Hadst Thou not been so long unsought, unmet)
Some morrow Thou shalt learn my worship’s worth

When Time is done at last, and the last Spring
Fadeth on earth, and thy gaze seeketh mine,
Watch well for one whose face beareth for sign
The legend of a soul’s refashioning:
As I shall watch for one whose pale hands bring

The first faint violet, and know them thine
Grown pitiful and come to build Love’s shrine
Where the old Aprils wait, unfaltering.
Then the great floods between us will retire,
And the long path I follow down will grow


To be the path thy climbing feet desire;
Until we meet at last, made glad, and know
The cleansing hands that made my soul as snow
Have kept alive in thine the ancient fire.

Why should we fear? The sun will surely rise,
If we but wait, to light us on our way.
Think you none hearkeneth to us who pray,
That no God’s heart is softened by our cries?
Did we not learn that He was kind and wise

And loved our souls? And shall your bodies say
“There is no light. The tales thy told us,—they
Were only dreams, dreamed in the House of Lies.”
Nay, listen not to what your body saith,
But by the memory of those antique years


When it was evil and of little faith
And led the soul along a way of tears,
Let your soul chant—as one that hath no fears—
“We know that Thou art stronger, God, than death.”

Were once again the immortal moment mine
How should I choose my path? The path I choose
(How long ago I wonder if Time knows)
Even now I see. I see the old sunshine
Upon the moss, thick strewn with fir and pine;


The open field; the orchard’s even rows;
The wood again; then, where the hills unclose,
Far off at first, now near, the long-sought shrine.
O Time, how impotent thou art! Though thou
Hast taken me from all things, and all things


From me,—although the wind of thy swift wings
Hath swept at last the shadow from her brow
Of my last kiss, yet do I triumph now
Who, choosing, paused to hear Love’s counsellings.

Fine gold is here; yea, heavy yellow gold,
Gathered ere Earth’s first days and nights were fled;
And all the walls are hung with scarfs of red,
Broidered in fallen cities, fold on fold;
The stainèd window’s saints are aureoled;


And all the textures of the East are spread
On the pavèd floor, whereon I lay my head,
And sleep, and count the coloured things of old.
Once, when the hills and I were all aflame
With envy of the pageant in the West


(Except the sombre pine-trees—whence there came,
Continually, the sigh of their unrest),
A lonely crow sailed past me, black as shame,
Hugging some ancient sorrow to his breast.

Such space there is, such endless breadth of time
Between me and my world of yesterday,
I half forget what sounds these be that stray
About my chamber, and grow and fall and climb.
Listen!—that sweet reiterated chime,


Doth it not mark some body changed to clay?
That last great chord, some anguish far away?
Hark! harmony ever now and faultless rhyme.
O Soul of mine, among these lutes and lyres,
These reeds, these golden pipes, and quivering strings,


Thou knowest now that in the old, old years
We who knew only one of all desires
Came often even to music’s furthest springs—
To pass, because their waters gleamed like tears.

I would not have thee, dear, in darkness sit,
On days like this, hand clasped in quiet hand,
Remembering mournfully that fragrant land—
Each day therein, what joy we had of it.
Rather, while still the lamps are trimmed and lit,


Bid strangers to the feasts that once we planned,
Merry the while! Until the dust’s demand
My soul, not thine, shall separately submit.
So, when thou comest (for I at last will call
And thou shalt hear, and linger not at all),


Still to thy throat, thine arms, thy loosened hair
Will cling the savor of the world’s fresh kiss,
So sweet to me! and doubly sweet for this—
That thou for mine shouldst leave a place so fair!

Heart of my heart! canst thou hear? canst thou hear?
Awake! it is June; and the violets peer
Where the old acorns lie and the leaves of last year.

Awake! It is I, it is I who have come
To arouse thee, to kiss thee, to guide thy feet home.

I call and I hearken: the twilight is dumb.

O, surely thou hearest my far-reaching cry!
O come and be glad of the grass and the sky
And the greenwood we knew long ago, thou and I!

I cry and I hearken; a little wind stirs


Through the trees: then again the great silence is hers:
And the new moon drops under the silver-tipped firs:

Only, over the hill, on the hillside, I know
That it pauses to watch for a while, ere it go,
The roof of her House where the young grasses grow.

Maidens, awake! For Christ is born again!
And let your feet disdain
The paths whereby of late they have been led.
Now Death itself is dead,
And Love hath birth,


And all things mournful find no place on earth.

This morn ye all must go another way
Than ye went yesterday.
Not with sad faces shall ye silent go
Where He hath suffered so;


But where there be
Full many flowers shall ye wend joyfully.

Moreover, too, ye must be clad in white,
As if the ended night
Were but your bridal-morn’s foreshadowing.


And ye must also sing
In angel-wise:
So shall ye be most worthy in His eyes.

Maidens, arise! I know where many flowers
Have grown these many hours

To make more perfect this glad Easter-day;
Where tall white lilies sway
On slender stem,
Waiting for you to come and garner them;

Where banks of mayflowers are, all pink and white,


Which will Him well delight;
And yellow buttercups, and growing grass
Through which the Spring winds pass;
And mosses wet,
Well strown with many a new-born violet.


All these and every other flower are here.
Will ye not draw anear
And gather them for Him, and in His name,
Whom all men now proclaim
Their living King?


Behold how all these wait your harvesting!

Moreover, see the darkness of His house!
Think ye that He allows
Such glory of glad color and perfume,
But to destroy the gloom


That hath held fast
His altar-place these many days gone past?

For this alone these blossoms had their birth,―
To show His perfect worth!
Therefore, O Maidens, ye must go apace


To that strange garden-place
And gather all
These living flowers for His high festival.

For now hath come the long-desirèd day,
Wherein Love hath full sway!


Open the gates, O ye who guard His home,
His handmaidens are come!
Open them wide,
That all may enter in this Easter-tide!

Then, maidens, come, with song and lute-playing,


And all your wild flowers bring
And strew them on His altar; while the sun―
Seeing what hath been done―
Shines strong once more,
Knowing that Death hath Christ for conqueror.

Under the sun, the Kingfisher
From his high place was watching her.

He knew she came from some far place;
For when she threw her body down,
She seemed quite tired; and her face


Had dust upon it; and her gown,
That had been yellow, now was brown.

She lay near where the shadows lie
At noontime when they meet the sun.
The water floated slowly by


Her feet. Her hair was all undone,
And with the grass its gold was spun.

The trees were tall and green behind,
And hid the house upon the hill.
This place was sheltered from the wind,


And all the little leaves were still,
And every fern and daffodil.

Her face was hidden in her hands;
And through the grass, and through her hair,
The sunlight found the golden bands


About her wrists. (It was aware,
Also, that her two arms were bare.)

From his high branch, the Kingfisher
Looked down on her and pitied her.

He wondered who that she could be,―


This dear, strange lady, who had come
To vex him with her misery;
And why her days were wearisome,
And what far country was her home.

Her home must be far off indeed,


Wherein such bitter grief could grow.
Had there been no one there to plead
For her when they had wronged her so?
Did none her perfect honor know?

Was there no sword or pennoned lance


Omnipotent in hall or field
For her complete deliverance?
To make them cry, “We yield! we yield”?
Were not her colors on some shield?

Had he been there, the Kingfisher,


How he had fought and died for her!

A little yellow bird flew by;
And where the water-weeds were still,
Hovered a great blue dragon-fly;
Small fishes set the streams a-thrill.

The Kingfisher forgot to kill.

He only thought of her who lay
Upon the ground and was so fair,―
As fair as she who came one day
And sat long with her lover there.


The same gold sun was in her hair.

They had come down, because of love,
From the great house on the hillside:
This lady had no share thereof,
For now this place was sanctified!


Had this fair lady’s lover died?

Was this dear lady’s lover dead?
Had she come here to wait until
Her heart and soul were comforted?
Why was it not within her will


To seek the lady on the hill?

She, too, was lonely; for he had
Beheld her just this morning, when
Her last kiss made her lover glad
Who went to fight the heathen-men:


(He said he would return again!)

That lady would have charity
He knew, because her love was great;
And this one—fairer even than she—
Should enter in her open gate


And be no more disconsolate!

Under the sun, the Kingfisher
Knew no one else might comfort her.

Watching the tremulous flicker of the green
Against the open quiet of the sky,
I hear my ancient way-fellows convene

In the great wood behind me. Where I lie
They may not see me; for the grasses grow

As though no foot save June’s had wandered by;

Yet I, who am well-hidden, surely know,
As I have waited them, they yearn for me
To lead them whither they are fain to go.

Weary as I, are they, O Time, of thee!


Yea, we, who once were glad only of Spring,
Gather about thy wall and would be free!

With wounded feet we cease from wandering,
And with vain hands beat idly at thy gate;
And thou,—thou hast no thought of opening,


And from thy peace are we still separate.

Yet, comrades, though ye come together there,
And search across the shadows for my face,
Until the pines murmur of your despair,

I think I shall not tell my hiding-place,


For ye know not the path ye would pursue,
And it is late our footsteps to retrace.

Too weak am I, and now not one of you—
So weary are ye of each ancient way―
Retaineth strength enough to seek a new;


And ye are blind—knowing not night from day;
Crying at noontime, “Let us see the sun!”
And with the even, “O for rest, we pray!”

O Blind and fearful! Shall I, who have won
At last this little portion of content,

Yield all to be with you again undone?

Because ye languish in your prisonment
Must I now hearken to your bitter cry?
Must I forego, as ye long since forewent,

My vision of the far-off open sky?

Nay! Earth hath much ungiven she yet may give;
And though to-day your laboring souls would die,
From earth my soul gaineth the strength to live.

O covering grasses! O unchanging trees!
Is it not good to feel the odorous wind

Come down upon you with such harmonies

Only the giant hills can ever find?
O little leaves, are ye not glad to be?
Is not the sunlight fair, the shadow kind,

That falls at noon-time over you and me?

O gleam of birches lost among the firs,
Let your high treble chime in silverly

Across the half-imagined wind that stirs
A muffled organ-music from the pines!
Earth knows to-day that not one note of hers


Is minor. For, behold, the loud sun shines
Till the young maples are no longer gray,
And stronger grow their faint, uncertain lines;

Each violet takes a deeper blue to-day,
And purpler swell the cones hung overhead,

Until the sound of their far feet who stray

About the wood, fades from me; and, instead,
I hear a robin singing—not as one
That calls unto his mate, uncomforted—
But as one sings a welcome to the sun.


Not among men, or near men-fashioned things,
In the old years found I this present ease,
Though I have known the fellowship of kings

And tarried long in splendid palaces.
The worship of vast peoples has been mine,

The homage of uncounted pageantries.

Sea-offerings, and fruits of field and vine
Have humble folk been proud to bring to me;
And woven cloths of wonderful design

Have lain untouched in far lands over-sea,


Till the rich traffickers beheld my sails.
Long caravans have toiled on wearily—

Harassed yet watchful of their costly bales―
Across wide sandy places, glad to bear
Strange oils and perfumes strained in Indian vales,


Great gleaming rubies torn from some queen’s hair,
Yellow, long-hoarded coin and golden dust,
Deeming that I would find their offerings fair.

—O fairness quick to fade! Ashes and rust
And food for moths! O half-remembered things


Once altar-set!—I think when one is thrust

Far down in the under-world, where the worm clings
Close to the newly-dead, among the dead
Not one awakes to ask what gift she brings.

The color of her eyes, her hair outspread


In the most wind that stifles ere it blows,
Falls on unwatching eyes; and no man knows
The gracious odors that her garments shed.

And she, unwearied yet and not grown wise,
Follows a little while her devious way


Across the twilight; where no voice replies

When her voice calls, bravely; and where to-day
Is even as yesterday and all days were.
Great houses loom up swiftly, out of the gray.

Knocking at last, the gradual echoes stir


The hangings of unhaunted passages;
Until she surely knows only for her

Has this House hoarded up its silences
Since the beginning of the early years,
And that this night her soul shall dwell at ease


And grow forgetful of its ancient fears
In some long-kept, unviolated room.
And so the quiet city no more hears
Her footsteps, and the streets their dust resume.

But what have I to do with her and death


Who hold these living grasses in my hands,―
With her who liveth not, yet sorroweth?

(For it shall chance, however close the bands
Of sleep be drawn about her, nevertheless
She must remember alway the old lands


She wandered in, and their old hollowness.)
―Awaiting here the strong word of the trees,
My soul leans over to the wind’s caress,

One with the flowers; far off, it hears the sea’s
Rumor of large, unmeasured things, and yet


It has no yearning to remix with these.

For the pines whisper, lest it may forget,
Of the near pool; and how the shadow lies
On it forever; and of its edges, set

With maiden-hair; and how, in guardian-wise,


The alder trees bend over, until one
Forgets the color of the unseen skies

And loses all remembrance of the sun.
No echo there of the sea’s loss and pain;
Nor sound of little rivers, even, that run


Where with the wind the hollow reeds complain;
Nor the soft stir of marsh-waters, when dawn
Comes in with quiet covering of rain:

Only, all day, the shadow of peace upon
The pool’s gray breast; and with the fall of even,


The noiseless gleam of scattered stars—withdrawn
From the unfathomed treasuries of heaven.

And as the sea has not the strength to win
Back to its love my soul, O Comrades, ye―
In the wood lost, and seeking me therein―


Are not less impotent than all the sea!

My soul at last its ultimate house hath won,
And in that house shall sleep along with me.

Yea, we shall slumber softly, out of the sun,
To day and night alike indifferent,


Aware and unaware if Time be done.

Yet ere I go, ere yet your faith be spent,
For our old love I pass Earth’s message on:
“In me, why shouldst thou not find thy content?

“Are not my days surpassing fair, from dawn


To sunset, and my nights fulfilled with peace?
Shall not my strength remain when thou art gone

“The way of all blown dust? Shall Beauty cease
Upon my face because thy face grows gray?
Behold, thine hours, even now, fade and decrease,


“And thou hast got no wisdom; yet I say
This thing there is to learn ere thou must go:
Have no sad thoughts of me upon the way

“Thou takest home coming; for thy soul shall know
The old glad things and sorrowful its share


Until at last Time’s legions overthrow
The House they days have builded unaware.”

Now therefore am I joyful who have heard
Earth’s message plain to-day, and so I cry
Aloud to you, O Comrades, her last word,



That ye may be as wise and glad as I,
And the long grasses, and the broad green leaves
That beat against the far, unclouded sky:

Who worships me always, who alway cleaves
Close unto me till his last call rings clear


Across the pathless wood,—his soul receives
My peace continually and shall not fear.

Watching the tremulous flicker of the green
Against the open quiet of the sky,
I hear my ancient way-fellows convene

In the great wood behind me. Where I lie
They may not see me; for the grasses grow


As though no foot save June’s had wandered by;

Yet I, who am well-hidden, surely know,
As I have waited them, they yearn for me
To lead them whither they are fain to go.

Weary as I, are they, O Time, of thee!

Yea, we, who once were glad only of Spring,
Gather about thy wall and would be free!

With wounded feet we cease from wandering,
And with vain hands beat idly at thy gate;
And thou,—thou hast no thought of opening,


And from thy peace are we still separate.

Yet, comrades, though ye come together there,
And search across the shadows for my face,
Until the pines murmur of your despair,

I think I shall not tell my hiding-place,


For ye know not the path ye would pursue,
And it is late our footsteps to retrace.

Too weak am I, and now not one of you—
So weary are ye of each ancient way―
Retaineth strength enough to seek a new;

And ye are blind—knowing not night from day;
Crying at noontime, “Let us see the sun!”
And with the even, “O for rest, we pray!”

O Blind and fearful! Shall I, who have won
At last this little portion of content,


Yield all to be with you again undone?

Because ye languish in your prisonment
Must I now hearken to your bitter cry?
Must I forego, as ye long since forewent,

My vision of the far-off open sky?


Nay! Earth hath much ungiven she yet may give;
And though to-day your laboring souls would die,
From earth my soul gaineth the strength to live.

O covering grasses! O unchanging trees!
Is it not good to feel the odorous wind


Come down upon you with such harmonies

Only the giant hills can ever find?
O little leaves, are ye not glad to be?
Is not the sunlight fair, the shadow kind,

That falls at noon-time over you and me?


O gleam of birches lost among the firs,
Let your high treble chime in silverly

Across the half-imagined wind that stirs
A muffled organ-music from the pines!
Earth knows to-day that not one note of hers


Is minor. For, behold, the loud sun shines
Till the young maples are no longer gray,
And stronger grow their faint, uncertain lines;

Each violet takes a deeper blue to-day,
And purpler swell the cones hung overhead,


Until the sound of their far feet who stray

About the wood, fades from me; and, instead,
I hear a robin singing—not as one
That calls unto his mate, uncomforted—
But as one sings a welcome to the sun.



Not among men, or near men-fashioned things,
In the old years found I this present ease,
Though I have known the fellowship of kings

And tarried long in splendid palaces.
The worship of vast peoples has been mine,


The homage of uncounted pageantries.

Sea-offerings, and fruits of field and vine
Have humble folk been proud to bring to me;
And woven cloths of wonderful design

Have lain untouched in far lands over-sea,


Till the rich traffickers beheld my sails.
Long caravans have toiled on wearily—

Harassed yet watchful of their costly bales―
Across wide sandy places, glad to bear
Strange oils and perfumes strained in Indian vales,



Great gleaming rubies torn from some queen’s hair,
Yellow, long-hoarded coin and golden dust,
Deeming that I would find their offerings fair.

—O fairness quick to fade! Ashes and rust
And food for moths! O half-remembered things


Once altar-set!—I think when one is thrust

Far down in the under-world, where the worm clings
Close to the newly-dead, among the dead
Not one awakes to ask what gift she brings.

The color of her eyes, her hair outspread


In the most wind that stifles ere it blows,
Falls on unwatching eyes; and no man knows
The gracious odors that her garments shed.

And she, unwearied yet and not grown wise,
Follows a little while her devious way


Across the twilight; where no voice replies

When her voice calls, bravely; and where to-day
Is even as yesterday and all days were.
Great houses loom up swiftly, out of the gray.

Knocking at last, the gradual echoes stir


The hangings of unhaunted passages;
Until she surely knows only for her

Has this House hoarded up its silences
Since the beginning of the early years,
And that this night her soul shall dwell at ease


And grow forgetful of its ancient fears
In some long-kept, unviolated room.
And so the quiet city no more hears
Her footsteps, and the streets their dust resume.

But what have I to do with her and death


Who hold these living grasses in my hands,―
With her who liveth not, yet sorroweth?

(For it shall chance, however close the bands
Of sleep be drawn about her, nevertheless
She must remember alway the old lands



She wandered in, and their old hollowness.)
―Awaiting here the strong word of the trees,
My soul leans over to the wind’s caress,

One with the flowers; far off, it hears the sea’s
Rumor of large, unmeasured things, and yet


It has no yearning to remix with these.

For the pines whisper, lest it may forget,
Of the near pool; and how the shadow lies
On it forever; and of its edges, set

With maiden-hair; and how, in guardian-wise,


The alder trees bend over, until one
Forgets the color of the unseen skies

And loses all remembrance of the sun.
No echo there of the sea’s loss and pain;
Nor sound of little rivers, even, that run



Where with the wind the hollow reeds complain;
Nor the soft stir of marsh-waters, when dawn
Comes in with quiet covering of rain:

Only, all day, the shadow of peace upon
The pool’s gray breast; and with the fall of even,


The noiseless gleam of scattered stars—withdrawn
From the unfathomed treasuries of heaven.

And as the sea has not the strength to win
Back to its love my soul, O Comrades, ye―
In the wood lost, and seeking me therein―


Are not less impotent than all the sea!

My soul at last its ultimate house hath won,
And in that house shall sleep along with me.

Yea, we shall slumber softly, out of the sun,
To day and night alike indifferent,


Aware and unaware if Time be done.

Yet ere I go, ere yet your faith be spent,
For our old love I pass Earth’s message on:
“In me, why shouldst thou not find thy content?

“Are not my days surpassing fair, from dawn


To sunset, and my nights fulfilled with peace?
Shall not my strength remain when thou art gone

“The way of all blown dust? Shall Beauty cease
Upon my face because thy face grows gray?
Behold, thine hours, even now, fade and decrease,



“And thou hast got no wisdom; yet I say
This thing there is to learn ere thou must go:
Have no sad thoughts of me upon the way

“Thou takest home coming; for thy soul shall know
The old glad things and sorrowful its share

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Until at last Time’s legions overthrow
The House they days have builded unaware.”

Now therefore am I joyful who have heard
Earth’s message plain to-day, and so I cry
Aloud to you, O Comrades, her last word,



That ye may be as wise and glad as I,
And the long grasses, and the broad green leaves
That beat against the far, unclouded sky:

Who worships me always, who alway cleaves
Close unto me till his last call rings clear


Across the pathless wood,—his soul receives
My peace continually and shall not fear.