Down from the tomb where many an aeon
Silently has knelt,
Many a pilgrimage of millions—
Still about it felt.
Still, for see them gather ghostly
Now, as the numb sound
Floats as unearthly necromancy
From the past's dead ground.
See the invisible vast millions,
Hear their soundless feet
Climbing the shrine-ways to the gilded
Carven temple's seat.
And, one among them—pale among them—
Passes waning by.
What is it tells me mystically
That strange one was I?...
Weird thro' the mist and cryptomeria
Dies the bell—'tis dumb.
After how many lives returning
Shall I hither come?
Hither again! and climb the votive
Ever mossy ways?
Who shall the gods be then, the millions,
Meek, entreat or praise?
[THE ATONER]
Winter has come in sackcloth and ashes
(Penance for Summer's enverdured sheaves).
Bitterly, cruelly, bleakly he lashes
His limbs that are naked of grass and leaves.