A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass

          Some men there are who find in nature all
          Their inspiration, hers the sympathy
          Which spurs them on to any great endeavor,
          To them the fields and woods are closest friends,
          And they hold dear communion with the hills;
          The voice of waters soothes them with its fall,
          And the great winds bring healing in their sound.
          To them a city is a prison house
          Where pent up human forces labour and strive,
          Where beauty dwells not, driven forth by man;
          But where in winter they must live until
          Summer gives back the spaces of the hills.
          To me it is not so.  I love the earth
          And all the gifts of her so lavish hand:
          Sunshine and flowers, rivers and rushing winds,
          Thick branches swaying in a winter storm,
          And moonlight playing in a boat's wide wake;
          But more than these, and much, ah, how much more,
          I love the very human heart of man.
          Above me spreads the hot, blue mid-day sky,
          Far down the hillside lies the sleeping lake
          Lazily reflecting back the sun,
          And scarcely ruffled by the little breeze
          Which wanders idly through the nodding ferns.
          The blue crest of the distant mountain, tops
          The green crest of the hill on which I sit;
          And it is summer, glorious, deep-toned summer,
          The very crown of nature's changing year
          When all her surging life is at its full.
          To me alone it is a time of pause,
          A void and silent space between two worlds,
          When inspiration lags, and feeling sleeps,
          Gathering strength for efforts yet to come.
          For life alone is creator of life,
          And closest contact with the human world
          Is like a lantern shining in the night
          To light me to a knowledge of myself.
          I love the vivid life of winter months
          In constant intercourse with human minds,
          When every new experience is gain
          And on all sides we feel the great world's heart;
          The pulse and throb of life which makes us men!

          As for a moment he stands, in hardy masculine beauty,
          Poised on the fircrested rock, over the pool which below him
          Gleams in the wavering sunlight, waiting the shock of his plunging.
          So for a moment I stand, my feet planted firm in the present,
          Eagerly scanning the future which is so soon to possess me.

          At first a mere thread of a footpath half blotted out by the grasses
          Sweeping triumphant across it, it wound between hedges of roses
          Whose blossoms were poised above leaves as pond lilies float on the water,
          While hidden by bloom in a hawthorn a bird filled the morning with singing.

          It widened a highway, majestic, stretching ever to distant horizons,
          Where shadows of tree-branches wavered, vague outlines invaded by sunshine;
          No sound but the wind as it whispered the secrets of earth to the flowers,
          And the hum of the yellow bees, honey-laden and dusty with pollen.
          And Summer said, "Come, follow onward, with no thought save the longing
            to wander,
          The wind, and the bees, and the flowers, all singing the great song
            of Nature,
          Are minstrels of change and of promise, they herald the joy of the Future."

          Later the solitude vanished, confused and distracted the road
          Where many were seeking and jostling.  Left behind were the trees
            and the flowers,
          The half-realized beauty of quiet, the sacred unconscious communing.
          And now he is come to a river, a line of gray, sullen water,
          Not blue and splashing, but dark, rolling somberly on to the ocean.
          But on the far side is a city whose windows flame gold in the sunset.
          It lies fair and shining before him, a gem set betwixt sky and water,
          And spanning the river a bridge, frail promise to longing desire,
          Flung by man in his infinite courage, across the stern force of the water;
          And he looks at the river and fears, the bridge is so slight,
            yet he ventures
          His life to its fragile keeping, if it fails the waves will engulf him.
          O Arches! be strong to uphold him, and bear him across to the city,
          The beautiful city whose spires still glow with the fires of sunset!

          Look, Dear, how bright the moonlight is to-night!
          See where it casts the shadow of that tree
          Far out upon the grass.  And every gust
          Of light night wind comes laden with the scent
          Of opening flowers which never bloom by day:
          Night-scented stocks, and four-o'clocks, and that
          Pale yellow disk, upreared on its tall stalk,
          The evening primrose, comrade of the stars.
          It seems as though the garden which you love
          Were like a swinging censer, its incense
          Floating before us as a reverent act
          To sanctify and bless our night of love.
          Tell me once more you love me, that 't is you
          Yes, really you, I touch, so, with my hand;
          And tell me it is by your own free will
          That you are here, and that you like to be
          Just here, with me, under this sailing pine.
          I need to hear it often for my heart
          Doubts naturally, and finds it hard to trust.
          Ah, Dearest, you are good to love me so,
          And yet I would not have it goodness, rather
          Excess of selfishness in you to need
          Me through and through, as flowers need the sun.
          I wonder can it really be that you
          And I are here alone, and that the night
          Is full of hours, and all the world asleep,
          And none can call to you to come away;
          For you have given all yourself to me
          Making me gentle by your willingness.
          Has your life too been waiting for this time,
          Not only mine the sharpness of this joy?
          Dear Heart, I love you, worship you as though
          I were a priest before a holy shrine.
          I'm glad that you are beautiful, although
          Were you not lovely still I needs must love;
          But you are all things, it must have been so
          For otherwise it were not you.  Come, close;
          When you are in the circle of my arm
          Faith grows a mountain and I take my stand
          Upon its utmost top.  Yes, yes, once more
          Kiss me, and let me feel you very near
          Wanting me wholly, even as I want you.
          Have years behind been dark?  Will those to come
          Bring unguessed sorrows into our two lives?
          What does it matter, we have had to-night!
          To-night will make us strong, for we believe
          Each in the other, this is a sacrament.
          Beloved, is it true?

          I know a country laced with roads,
           They join the hills and they span the brooks,
          They weave like a shuttle between broad fields,
           And slide discreetly through hidden nooks.
          They are canopied like a Persian dome
           And carpeted with orient dyes.
          They are myriad-voiced, and musical,
           And scented with happiest memories.
          O Winding roads that I know so well,
           Every twist and turn, every hollow and hill!
          They are set in my heart to a pulsing tune
           Gay as a honey-bee humming in June.
          'T is the rhythmic beat of a horse's feet
           And the pattering paws of a sheep-dog bitch;
          'T is the creaking trees, and the singing breeze,
           And the rustle of leaves in the road-side ditch.

          A cow in a meadow shakes her bell
           And the notes cut sharp through the autumn air,
          Each chattering brook bears a fleet of leaves
           Their cargo the rainbow, and just now where
           The sun splashed bright on the road ahead
          A startled rabbit quivered and fled.
           O Uphill roads and roads that dip down!
          You curl your sun-spattered length along,
           And your march is beaten into a song
          By the softly ringing hoofs of a horse
           And the panting breath of the dogs I love.
          The pageant of Autumn follows its course
           And the blue sky of Autumn laughs above.

          And the song and the country become as one,
           I see it as music, I hear it as light;
          Prismatic and shimmering, trembling to tone,
           The land of desire, my soul's delight.
          And always it beats in my listening ears
           With the gentle thud of a horse's stride,
          With the swift-falling steps of many dogs,
           Following, following at my side.
          O Roads that journey to fairyland!
           Radiant highways whose vistas gleam,
          Leading me on, under crimson leaves,
           To the opaline gates of the Castles of Dream.

          How still it is!  Sunshine itself here falls
           In quiet shafts of light through the high trees
          Which, arching, make a roof above the walls
           Changing from sun to shadow as each breeze
          Lingers a moment, charmed by the strange sight
          Of an Italian theatre, storied, seer
           Of vague romance, and time's long history;
          Where tiers of grass-grown seats sprinkled with white,
           Sweet-scented clover, form a broken sphere
           Grouped round the stage in hushed expectancy.

          What sound is that which echoes through the wood?
           Is it the reedy note of an oaten pipe?
          Perchance a minute more will see the brood
           Of the shaggy forest god, and on his lip
          Will rest the rushes he is wont to play.
           His train in woven baskets bear ripe fruit
           And weave a dance with ropes of gray acorns,
          So light their touch the grasses scarcely sway
           As they the measure tread to the lilting flute.
           Alas! 't is only Fancy thus adorns.

          A cloud drifts idly over the shining sun.
           How damp it seems, how silent, still, and strange!
          Surely 't was here some tragedy was done,
           And here the chorus sang each coming change?
          Sure this is deep in some sweet, southern wood,
           These are not pines, but cypress tall and dark;
           That is no thrush which sings so rapturously,
          But the nightingale in his most passionate mood
           Bursting his little heart with anguish.  Hark!
           The tread of sandalled feet comes noiselessly.

          The silence almost is a sound, and dreams
           Take on the semblances of finite things;
          So potent is the spell that what but seems
           Elsewhere, is lifted here on Fancy's wings.
          The little woodland theatre seems to wait,
           All tremulous with hope and wistful joy,
           For something that is sure to come at last,
          Some deep emotion, satisfying, great.
           It grows a living presence, bold and shy,
           Cradling the future in a glorious past.

          A Minstrel stands on a marble stair,
          Blown by the bright wind, debonair;
          Below lies the sea, a sapphire floor,
          Above on the terrace a turret door
          Frames a lady, listless and wan,
          But fair for the eye to rest upon.
          The minstrel plucks at his silver strings,
          And looking up to the lady, sings: —
             Down the road to Avignon,
             The long, long road to Avignon,
             Across the bridge to Avignon,
             One morning in the spring.

          The octagon tower casts a shade
          Cool and gray like a cutlass blade;
          In sun-baked vines the cicalas spin,
          The little green lizards run out and in.
          A sail dips over the ocean's rim,
          And bubbles rise to the fountain's brim.
          The minstrel touches his silver strings,
          And gazing up to the lady, sings: —
             Down the road to Avignon,
             The long, long road to Avignon,
             Across the bridge to Avignon,
             One morning in the spring.

          Slowly she walks to the balustrade,
          Idly notes how the blossoms fade
          In the sun's caress; then crosses where
          The shadow shelters a carven chair.
          Within its curve, supine she lies,
          And wearily closes her tired eyes.
          The minstrel beseeches his silver strings,
          And holding the lady spellbound, sings: —
             Down the road to Avignon,
             The long, long road to Avignon,
             Across the bridge to Avignon,
             One morning in the spring.

          Clouds sail over the distant trees,
          Petals are shaken down by the breeze,
          They fall on the terrace tiles like snow;
          The sighing of waves sounds, far below.
          A humming-bird kisses the lips of a rose
          Then laden with honey and love he goes.
          The minstrel woos with his silver strings,
          And climbing up to the lady, sings: —
             Down the road to Avignon,
             The long, long road to Avignon,
             Across the bridge to Avignon,
             One morning in the spring.

          Step by step, and he comes to her,
          Fearful lest she suddenly stir.
          Sunshine and silence, and each to each,
          The lute and his singing their only speech;
          He leans above her, her eyes unclose,
          The humming-bird enters another rose.
          The minstrel hushes his silver strings.
          Hark!  The beating of humming-birds' wings!
             Down the road to Avignon,
             The long, long road to Avignon,
             Across the bridge to Avignon,
             One morning in the spring.

          A near horizon whose sharp jags
           Cut brutally into a sky
          Of leaden heaviness, and crags
          Of houses lift their masonry
           Ugly and foul, and chimneys lie
          And snort, outlined against the gray
           Of lowhung cloud.  I hear the sigh
          The goaded city gives, not day
          Nor night can ease her heart, her anguished labours stay.

          Below, straight streets, monotonous,
           From north and south, from east and west,
          Stretch glittering; and luminous
           Above, one tower tops the rest
           And holds aloft man's constant quest:
          Time!  Joyless emblem of the greed
           Of millions, robber of the best
          Which earth can give, the vulgar creed
          Has seared upon the night its flaming ruthless screed.

          O Night!  Whose soothing presence brings
           The quiet shining of the stars.
          O Night!  Whose cloak of darkness clings
           So intimately close that scars
           Are hid from our own eyes.  Beggars
          By day, our wealth is having night
           To burn our souls before altars
          Dim and tree-shadowed, where the light
          Is shed from a young moon, mysteriously bright.

          Where art thou hiding, where thy peace?
           This is the hour, but thou art not.
          Will waking tumult never cease?
           Hast thou thy votary forgot?
           Nature forsakes this man-begot
          And festering wilderness, and now
           The long still hours are here, no jot
          Of dear communing do I know;
          Instead the glaring, man-filled city groans below!

          On winter nights beside the nursery fire
          We read the fairy tale, while glowing coals
          Builded its pictures.  There before our eyes
          We saw the vaulted hall of traceried stone
          Uprear itself, the distant ceiling hung
          With pendent stalactites like frozen vines;
          And all along the walls at intervals,
          Curled upwards into pillars, roses climbed,
          And ramped and were confined, and clustered leaves
          Divided where there peered a laughing face.
          The foliage seemed to rustle in the wind,
          A silent murmur, carved in still, gray stone.
          High pointed windows pierced the southern wall
          Whence proud escutcheons flung prismatic fires
          To stain the tessellated marble floor
          With pools of red, and quivering green, and blue;
          And in the shade beyond the further door,
          Its sober squares of black and white were hid
          Beneath a restless, shuffling, wide-eyed mob
          Of lackeys and retainers come to view
          The Christening.
          A sudden blare of trumpets, and the throng
          About the entrance parted as the guests
          Filed singly in with rare and precious gifts.
          Our eager fancies noted all they brought,
          The glorious, unattainable delights!
          But always there was one unbidden guest
          Who cursed the child and left it bitterness.

          The fire falls asunder, all is changed,
          I am no more a child, and what I see
          Is not a fairy tale, but life, my life.
          The gifts are there, the many pleasant things:
          Health, wealth, long-settled friendships, with a name
          Which honors all who bear it, and the power
          Of making words obedient.  This is much;
          But overshadowing all is still the curse,
          That never shall I be fulfilled by love!
          Along the parching highroad of the world
          No other soul shall bear mine company.
          Always shall I be teased with semblances,
          With cruel impostures, which I trust awhile
          Then dash to pieces, as a careless boy
          Flings a kaleidoscope, which shattering
          Strews all the ground about with coloured sherds.
          So I behold my visions on the ground
          No longer radiant, an ignoble heap
          Of broken, dusty glass.  And so, unlit,
          Even by hope or faith, my dragging steps
          Force me forever through the passing days.

          You came to me bearing bright roses,
           Red like the wine of your heart;
          You twisted them into a garland
           To set me aside from the mart.
          Red roses to crown me your lover,
           And I walked aureoled and apart.

          Enslaved and encircled, I bore it,
           Proud token of my gift to you.
          The petals waned paler, and shriveled,
           And dropped; and the thorns started through.
          Bitter thorns to proclaim me your lover,
           A diadem woven with rue.

          Dear Bessie, would my tired rhyme
           Had force to rise from apathy,
           And shaking off its lethargy
          Ring word-tones like a Christmas chime.

          But in my soul's high belfry, chill
           The bitter wind of doubt has blown,
           The summer swallows all have flown,
          The bells are frost-bound, mute and still.

          Upon the crumbling boards the snow
           Has drifted deep, the clappers hang
           Prismed with icicles, their clang
          Unheard since ages long ago.

          The rope I pull is stiff and cold,
           My straining ears detect no sound
           Except a sigh, as round and round
          The wind rocks through the timbers old.

          Below, I know the church is bright
           With haloed tapers, warm with prayer;
           But here I only feel the air
          Of icy centuries of night.

          Beneath my feet the snow is lit
           And gemmed with colours, red, and blue,
           Topaz, and green, where light falls through
          The saints that in the windows sit.

          Here darkness seems a spectred thing,
           Voiceless and haunting, while the stars
           Mock with a light of long dead years
          The ache of present suffering.

          Silent and winter-killed I stand,
           No carol hymns my debt to you;
           But take this frozen thought in lieu,
          And thaw its music in your hand.

          Thou father of the children of my brain
           By thee engendered in my willing heart,
           How can I thank thee for this gift of art
          Poured out so lavishly, and not in vain.

          What thou created never more can die,
           Thy fructifying power lives in me
           And I conceive, knowing it is by thee,
          Dear other parent of my poetry!

          For I was but a shadow with a name,
           Perhaps by now the very name's forgot;
           So strange is Fate that it has been my lot
          To learn through thee the presence of that aim

          Which evermore must guide me.  All unknown,
           By me unguessed, by thee not even dreamed,
           A tree has blossomed in a night that seemed
          Of stubborn, barren wood.  For thou hast sown

          This seed of beauty in a ground of truth.
           Humbly I dedicate myself, and yet
           I tremble with a sudden fear to set
          New music ringing through my fading youth.

          A flickering glimmer through a window-pane,
          A dim red glare through mud bespattered glass,
          Cleaving a path between blown walls of sleet
          Across uneven pavements sunk in slime
          To scatter and then quench itself in mist.
          And struggling, slipping, often rudely hurled
          Against the jutting angle of a wall,
          And cursed, and reeled against, and flung aside
          By drunken brawlers as they shuffled past,
          A man was groping to what seemed a light.
          His eyelids burnt and quivered with the strain
          Of looking, and against his temples beat
          The all enshrouding, suffocating dark.
          He stumbled, lurched, and struck against a door
          That opened, and a howl of obscene mirth
          Grated his senses, wallowing on the floor
          Lay men, and dogs and women in the dirt.
          He sickened, loathing it, and as he gazed
          The candle guttered, flared, and then went out.

          Through travail of ignoble midnight streets
          He came at last to shelter in a porch
          Where gothic saints and warriors made a shield
          To cover him, and tortured gargoyles spat
          One long continuous stream of silver rain
          That clattered down from myriad roofs and spires
          Into a darkness, loud with rushing sound
          Of water falling, gurgling as it fell,
          But always thickly dark.  Then as he leaned
          Unconscious where, the great oak door blew back
          And cast him, bruised and dripping, in the church.
          His eyes from long sojourning in the night
          Were blinded now as by some glorious sun;
          He slowly crawled toward the altar steps.
          He could not think, for heavy in his ears
          An organ boomed majestic harmonies;
          He only knew that what he saw was light!
          He bowed himself before a cross of flame
          And shut his eyes in fear lest it should fade.

          Blue through the window burns the twilight;
           Heavy, through trees, blows the warm south wind.
          Glistening, against the chill, gray sky light,
           Wet, black branches are barred and entwined.

          Sodden and spongy, the scarce-green grass plot
           Dents into pools where a foot has been.
          Puddles lie spilt in the road a mass, not
           Of water, but steel, with its cold, hard sheen.

          Faint fades the fire on the hearth, its embers
           Scattering wide at a stronger gust.
          Above, the old weathercock groans, but remembers
           Creaking, to turn, in its centuried rust.

          Dying, forlorn, in dreary sorrow,
           Wrapping the mists round her withering form,
          Day sinks down; and in darkness to-morrow
           Travails to birth in the womb of the storm.

          Leisure, thou goddess of a bygone age,
           When hours were long and days sufficed to hold
           Wide-eyed delights and pleasures uncontrolled
          By shortening moments, when no gaunt presage
          Of undone duties, modern heritage,
           Haunted our happy minds; must thou withhold
           Thy presence from this over-busy world,
          And bearing silence with thee disengage
           Our twined fortunes?  Deeps of unhewn woods
           Alone can cherish thee, alone possess
          Thy quiet, teeming vigor.  This our crime:
           Not to have worshipped, marred by alien moods
           That sole condition of all loveliness,
          The dreaming lapse of slow, unmeasured time.

          Swept, clean, and still, across the polished floor
           From some unshuttered casement, hid from sight,
           The level sunshine slants, its greater light
          Quenching the little lamp which pallid, poor,
          Flickering, unreplenished, at the door
           Has striven against darkness the long night.
           Dawn fills the room, and penetrating, bright,
          The silent sunbeams through the window pour.
           And she lies sleeping, ignorant of Fate,
           Enmeshed in listless dreams, her soul not yet
          Ripened to bear the purport of this day.
           The morning breeze scarce stirs the coverlet,
           A shadow falls across the sunlight; wait!
          A lark is singing as he flies away.

          Goaded and harassed in the factory
           That tears our life up into bits of days
           Ticked off upon a clock which never stays,
          Shredding our portion of Eternity,
          We break away at last, and steal the key
           Which hides a world empty of hours; ways
           Of space unroll, and Heaven overlays
          The leafy, sun-lit earth of Fantasy.
           Beyond the ilex shadow glares the sun,
           Scorching against the blue flame of the sky.
          Brown lily-pads lie heavy and supine
           Within a granite basin, under one
           The bronze-gold glimmer of a carp; and I
          Reach out my hand and pluck a nectarine.

          Cloud-topped and splendid, dominating all
           The little lesser hills which compass thee,
           Thou standest, bright with April's buoyancy,
          Yet holding Winter in some shaded wall
          Of stern, steep rock; and startled by the call
           Of Spring, thy trees flush with expectancy
           And cast a cloud of crimson, silently,
          Above thy snowy crevices where fall
           Pale shrivelled oak leaves, while the snow beneath
           Melts at their phantom touch.  Another year
          Is quick with import.  Such each year has been.
           Unmoved thou watchest all, and all bequeath
           Some jewel to thy diadem of power,
          Thou pledge of greater majesty unseen.

          A little garden on a bleak hillside
           Where deep the heavy, dazzling mountain snow
           Lies far into the spring.  The sun's pale glow
          Is scarcely able to melt patches wide
          About the single rose bush.  All denied
           Of nature's tender ministries.  But no, —
           For wonder-working faith has made it blow
          With flowers many hued and starry-eyed.
           Here sleeps the sun long, idle summer hours;
          Here butterflies and bees fare far to rove
           Amid the crumpled leaves of poppy flowers;
          Here four o'clocks, to the passionate night above
           Fling whiffs of perfume, like pale incense showers.
          A little garden, loved with a great love!

          Thou yellow trumpeter of laggard Spring!
           Thou herald of rich Summer's myriad flowers!
           The climbing sun with new recovered powers
          Does warm thee into being, through the ring
          Of rich, brown earth he woos thee, makes thee fling
           Thy green shoots up, inheriting the dowers
           Of bending sky and sudden, sweeping showers,
          Till ripe and blossoming thou art a thing
           To make all nature glad, thou art so gay;
          To fill the lonely with a joy untold;
           Nodding at every gust of wind to-day,
          To-morrow jewelled with raindrops.  Always bold
           To stand erect, full in the dazzling play
          Of April's sun, for thou hast caught his gold.

          'T is you that are the music, not your song.
           The song is but a door which, opening wide,
           Lets forth the pent-up melody inside,
          Your spirit's harmony, which clear and strong
          Sings but of you.  Throughout your whole life long
           Your songs, your thoughts, your doings, each divide
           This perfect beauty; waves within a tide,
          Or single notes amid a glorious throng.
           The song of earth has many different chords;
          Ocean has many moods and many tones
           Yet always ocean.  In the damp Spring woods
          The painted trillium smiles, while crisp pine cones
           Autumn alone can ripen.  So is this
           One music with a thousand cadences.

          Always we are following a light,
           Always the light recedes; with groping hands
           We stretch toward this glory, while the lands
          We journey through are hidden from our sight
          Dim and mysterious, folded deep in night,
           We care not, all our utmost need demands
           Is but the light, the light!  So still it stands
          Surely our own if we exert our might.
          Fool!  Never can'st thou grasp this fleeting gleam,
           Its glowing flame would die if it were caught,
          Its value is that it doth always seem
           But just a little farther on.  Distraught,
           But lighted ever onward, we are brought
          Upon our way unknowing, in a dream.

          A face seen passing in a crowded street,
           A voice heard singing music, large and free;
           And from that moment life is changed, and we
          Become of more heroic temper, meet
          To freely ask and give, a man complete
           Radiant because of faith, we dare to be
           What Nature meant us.  Brave idolatry
          Which can conceive a hero!  No deceit,
           No knowledge taught by unrelenting years,
           Can quench this fierce, untamable desire.
          We know that what we long for once achieved
           Will cease to satisfy.  Be still our fears;
           If what we worship fail us, still the fire
          Burns on, and it is much to have believed.

          Must all of worth be travailled for, and those
           Life's brightest stars rise from a troubled sea?
           Must years go by in sad uncertainty
          Leaving us doubting whose the conquering blows,
          Are we or Fate the victors?  Time which shows
           All inner meanings will reveal, but we
           Shall never know the upshot.  Ours to be
          Wasted with longing, shattered in the throes,
           The agonies of splendid dreams, which day
           Dims from our vision, but each night brings back;
          We strive to hold their grandeur, and essay
           To be the thing we dream.  Sudden we lack
          The flash of insight, life grows drear and gray,
           And hour follows hour, nerveless, slack.

          Life!  Austere arbiter of each man's fate,
           By whom he learns that Nature's steadfast laws
           Are as decrees immutable; O pause
          Your even forward march!  Not yet too late
          Teach me the needed lesson, when to wait
           Inactive as a ship when no wind draws
           To stretch the loosened cordage.  One implores
          Thy clemency, whose wilfulness innate
           Has gone uncurbed and roughshod while the years
              Have lengthened into decades; now distressed
          He knows no rule by which to move or stay,
           And teased with restlessness and desperate fears
          He dares not watch in silence thy wise way
              Bringing about results none could have guessed.

          What instinct forces man to journey on,
           Urged by a longing blind but dominant!
           Nothing he sees can hold him, nothing daunt
          His never failing eagerness.  The sun
          Setting in splendour every night has won
           His vassalage; those towers flamboyant
           Of airy cloudland palaces now haunt
          His daylight wanderings.  Forever done
          With simple joys and quiet happiness
           He guards the vision of the sunset sky;
          Though faint with weariness he must possess
           Some fragment of the sunset's majesty;
          He spurns life's human friendships to profess
           Life's loneliness of dreaming ecstasy.