And they the chosen vessel,—who of old
Knew not wherefore they broke their bonds and fled.
Yet in the end a desolation came
And the golden bowl was broken....
I saw men, symbols of humanity,—
Immortal longings bound in mortal clay,—
Wayfaring still upon the ancient road
Winding away to the invisible hills.
Still on the visionary scaffolding
The players played the old Morality,—