XI

Yea, thou didst burst the final gates of capture; And thy strong heart has passed From youth, half-blinded by its golden rapture, Into the vast Desolate bleakness of life's iron spaces; And there found solace, not in faiths, or faces, Or aught that must endure Time's harsh control. In the wilderness, alone, when skies were cloven, Thou hast thy garment and thy refuge woven From thine own soul.

XII

The faiths and forms of yesteryear are waning, Dropping, like leaves. Through the wood sweeps a great wind of complaining As Time bereaves Pitiful hearts of all that they thought holy. The icy stars look down on melancholy Shelterless creatures of a pillaged day: A day of disillusionment and terror, A day that yields no solace for the error It takes away.

XIII

Thee with no solace, but with bolder passion The bitter day endowed. As battling seas from the frail swimmer fashion At last the proud Indomitable master of their tides, Who with exultant power splendidly rides The terrible summit of each whelming wave,— So didst thou reap, from fields of wreckage, gain; Harvesting the wild fruit of the bitter main, Strength that shall save.

XIV

Here where old barks upon new headlands shatter, And worlds seem torn apart, Amid the creeds now vain to shield or flatter The mortal heart, Where the wild welter of strange knowledge won From grave and engine and the chemic sun Subdues the age to faith in dust and gold: The bardic laurel thou hast dowered with youth, In living witness of the spirit's truth, Like prophets old.

XV

Thee shall the future time with joy inherit. Hast thou not sung and said: "Save its own light, none leads the mortal spirit, None ever led"? Time shall bring many, even as thy steps have trod, Where the soul speaks authentically of God, Sustained by glories strange and strong and new. Yet these most Orphic mysteries of thy heart Only to kindred can thy speech impart; And they are few.