And few did note that face so high and sad,
And fewer yet gleaned up his muttered measures,
And many said the strange old man was mad.
Each bowing low, to gods that saw not, heard not,
He’d left the herd of folly, gain and pride,
When by its tender kiss, and kind low whisper,
He wist the coming of the even-tide.
Had he come forth to look on rock and wild-wood,
Bathed in the amber light of setting day?
Was it to watch the rain-bow glowing, fading,