And the spinning and turning,
Of madness amain
Fade out from his dreaming
As night from the pane,
When the rosy-red splendor
In dewdreams impearled,
From ashes of slumber,
Lifts over the world.
Yea, back from those echoes
Of bugles that blew,
Heart-weary, life-broken,
He wanders to you;
Yea, back to his truest,
Those far broken gleams
Of that rosy-red, morning-lit
House of his dreams.
Where all hours were splendid,
And all hearts held true,
In those glory-lit visions
Of beauty and you.
Yea, call to him, cry to him,
Mother of all;
You lit his youth’s torches,
You saw their flames fall.
You loved him, upheld him,
This child of thy breast,
And now give him surcease
In dreamings and rest.
Thy note was the one note
He heard in the fray,
That bore him far out
In the heat of the day;
Thy call is the one call
That beckons him home,
When day-fires darken
By forest and foam.
When o’er all the heartache,
The visions untrue,
Love draws her dim curtains
Of duskfire and dew.