Regions where never fancy's foot had trod Till then; yet all the strangeness seemed not strange, At which I wondered, reasoning in my dream With two-fold sense, well knowing that I slept. At last I came to this our cloud-hung earth, And somewhere by the seashore was a grave, A woman's grave, new-made, and heaped with flowers; And near it stood an ancient holy man That fain would comfort me, who sorrowed not For this unknown dead woman at my feet. But I, because his sacred office held My reverence, listened; and 't was thus he spake: "When next thou comest thou shalt find her still In all the rare perfection that she was. If this befalls our poor unworthy flesh, While yet he spoke, seashore and grave and priest Vanished, and faintly from a neighboring spire Fell five slow solemn strokes upon my ear. Then I awoke with a keen pain at heart, A sense of swift unutterable loss, And through the darkness reached my hand Will come, and marvel why thou wastest time; Others, beholding how thy turrets climb 'Twixt theirs and heaven, will hate thee all thy days; But most beware of those who come to praise. O Wondersmith, O worker in sublime And heaven-sent dreams, let art be all in all; Build as thou wilt, unspoiled by praise or blame, Build as thou wilt, and as thy light is given: Then, if at last the airy structure fall, Dissolve, and vanish take thyself no shame. They fail, and they alone, who have not striven. REMINISCENCE THOUGH I am native to this frozen zone That half the twelvemonth torpid lies, or dead; Though the cold azure arching overhead I do remember . . . it was just at dusk, Came to the water-tank to fill her urn, OUTWARD BOUND I LEAVE behind me the elm-shadowed square And carven portals of the silent street, air Smells of the sea, and straightway then the care Slips from my heart, and life once more is sweet. At the lane's ending lie the white-winged fleet. O restless Fancy, whither wouldst thou fare ? pæan, For heroes dying so! No room for sigh or tear, Save such rich tears as happy eyelids know. Of battle, and youth's gold about his brow; And parley hold with Fate, O soul of loyal valor and white truth, Thy serried ranks about thee as of yore, In thy undying youth! The tender heart, the eagle eye Oh, unto him belong The homages of Song; Our praises and the praise To him belong ! To him, to him, the dead that shall not die ! |