Thou art sick for horse and spear beside an Asian stream,
For the hearth-smoke in the wild, for the goatherd’s stave,
For a beauty far exiled, a belief within its grave.
While another sky and ground orb thy strange remembering,
And no world of mortal bound is the master of thy wing,
Canst thou yet thy fate forgive, that the godhead in thy breast
Has this life at least to live as a force in rhythmic rest,
As a seed that bides the hour of obscureness and decay,
Being troth of flower to flower down the long dynastic day?
Child whom elder airs enfold, who hast greatness to maintain