Her low voice back, the incense of the fields
Recall too well the odour of her hair.
But lo, the heart doth bury all its dead,
As mother Earth her unremembered leaves;
So the sad hour shall pass, and with the dawn
Serene I shall look down where hills and seas
Throb through their dome of brooding hyaline
And see from Athens gold to Indus gray
New worlds awaiting me, and gladly go,—
Go down among the toilers of the earth