To question, and the golden clews to dreams

Which idly passed us by.

Darkness to tired eyes,

Perplexed with vision, blinded with long day;

Quiet to busy hands, glad to fold up

And lay their work away.

A balm for anguish past,

Rest to the long unrest which smiles did hide;

The recognitions thirsted for in vain,

And still by life denied.