“Dead, they are dead, the gods in whom we have put our trust;
The hopes of heroes’ hearts are ashes and dross and dust.
“We have seen our flesh the sport of the crows and the creeping things—
We have seen the moss and the lichen grow over the bones of kings—
“The firs from us have fed their writhen boughs and thin
Our burning blood springs up in the cold green sap o’ the whin—
“A whirl of withered leaves in the desolate land of death,
Such are our haughty hosts, and our foes are wind and breath.
“I found in thy harp a voice; and, after uncounted years,
As a man to a man I spoke, and thou couldst not close thine ears.
“Yea, now thine ears are opened, for I saw thy soul as a fire
Aflame in the wastes of the night, the depth of my vain desire.
“As a moth to the torch’s flame, as to the moon the tide,
Drawn by thy tameless spirit, drawn by thy passion and pride,
“Storming the gates of Sense, as the cry of the chords outbroke,
Out of the deep I called, and unto the deep I spoke!”
Darkness dissolved; the earth stole back to sight; and shrill
A cock crew far away; like tears the dew lay chill;
And Herluin raised his head, and saw the pallid gleam
Stand in the face of the East above the shimmering stream,