PROLOGUE

Something is dead

The grace of sunset solitudes, the march
Of the solitary moon, the pomp and power
Of round on round of shining soldier-stars
Patrolling space, the bounties of the sun--
Sovran, tremendous, unimaginable-
The multitudinous friendliness of the sea,
Possess no more—no more.

Something is dead . . .

The Autumn rain-rot deeper and wider soaks
And spreads, the burden of Winter heavier weighs,
His melancholy close and closer yet

Cleaves, and those incantations of the Spring
That made the heart a centre of miracles

Grow formal, and the wonder-working bours
Arise no more—no more.

Something is dead. . .

'Tis time to creep in close about the fire

And tell grey tales of what we were, and dream Old dreams and faded, and as we may rejoice

In the young life that round us leaps and laughs,
A fountain in the sunshine, in the pride

Of God's best gift that to us twain returns,
Dear Heart, no more—no more.

I

To H. B. M. W.

WHERE forlorn sunsets flare and fade
On desolate sea and lonely sand,
Out of the silence and the shade

What is the voice of strange command
Calling you still, as friend calls friend
With love that cannot brook delay,
To rise and follow the ways that wend
Over the hills and far away?

Hark in the city, street on street
A roaring reach of death and life,
Of vortices that clash and fleet

And ruin in appointed strife,
Hark to it calling, calling clear,
Calling until you cannot stay

From dearer things than your own most dear Over the hills and far away.

Out of the sound of the ebb-and-flow,
Out of the sight of lamp and star,
It calls you where the good winds blow,
And the unchanging meadows are:
From faded hopes and hopes agleam,

It calls you, calls you night and day Beyond the dark into the dream