What saith the high noon unto thee?
"Wanderer, wanderer, hither, turn hither,
Far to the burning South with me,"
Saith the soft wind on the high June headland,
Sheering up from the summer sea,
"While the implacable warder, Oblivion,
Sleeps on the marge of a foamless sea!
"Come where the urge of desire availeth,
And no fear follows the children of men;
For a handful of dust is the only heirloom