Where is the island, shy abode of bliss,
Which seemed through summer haze to rise and float,
The isle which merchant fleets could never kiss,
But once stood still for Brendan’s hermit boat?
Where are my paladins with souls of snow,
Whose swords were fashioned at no mortal forge,
The men who rode where Arthur bade them go
To meet the dragon in his dungeon gorge?
O happy, happy dreams, ye were no lies,
No true apostle made me put away
Such “childish things,” which mirrored to mine eyes
Faith, Hope and Love. I call you back to stay.
XXX
THE KNIGHT
HE was so courteous to the paynim horde,
Men doubted if he served the Lord
Or held the faith of Christ.
They said he proudly scorned life’s sweetest prize,
Who never played with sparkling eyes
Or kept an evening tryst.
Their god of love was but Cupidity,
Their Lord an idol vanity
With mail below his vest:
While he, true knight, believed in Christ alone,
And though they thought his heart a stone,
Made love a hero’s quest.
XXXI
HOPES
To have lived just like a man
And done what one man can,
Not basking like a dog in summer dust;
Nor like a butterfly
That flaunts and flutters by,
Till showers have dimmed its silver wings with rust.
To have lightened some stiff load
Of men upon the road—
May some remember I am flesh and blood!
To have dried some children’s tears,
And slain some women’s fears
That bid them crouch beneath a brooding flood.
To have known the throbbing stars,
And traced the ancient scars
That streams have ploughed upon the mountain side;
To have sung songs passing sweet,
And sung with lasting heat
As pure as that of stars that burn and bide.