PILGRIMAGE

I will tread on the golden grass of my bright field, When the passion-star has paled, when the night has fled; I will tread on the golden grass of my bright field, In the glow of the early day when the east is red. In my bright field a broken beech-tree leans; And a giant boulder stands by a black-burned wood; And a rough-built, falling wall and a rotting door Sear, like a scar, the spot where a house once stood. My eyes are mute on the white edge of the dawn, My feet fall swift and bare upon the way.... The long soft hills grow black against the sky, The great wood moves, unfolds; the high trees sway. The worn road stretches thin, and the low hedge stirs, And a strong old bridge looms frail o’er a ghostly stream; And a white flower turns and breathes, and turns again.... Does it live, as I live? Does it wake, as I waked, from a dream? (How merciless is the dawn! how poignant the hush in my soul! How changeless the changing sky! how fearful that wild bird’s call! I hear the quick suck of his wing, the push of his breast—he is gone! How swift is an æon of time! how endless, beginningless, all!) I tread on the golden grass of my bright field; The sun’s on a hundred hills; the night has fled; I tread on the golden grass of my bright field In the glow of the early day; and the east is red.