Unresting, unvaried, as grey as the void is, Toward that wall 'gainst the heavens as though rest were behind it. Still onward we fared and the moon was forgotten, And colder the sea grew and colder the heavens, And blacker the wall grew, and grey, green-besprinkled, And the sky seemed to breach it; and lo at the last Many islands of mountains, and a city amongst them. White clouds of the dawn, not moving yet waning, Wreathed the high peaks about; and the sea beat for ever     'Gainst the green sloping hills and the black rocks and beachless.     —Is this the same land that I saw in that dawning? For sure if it is thou at least shalt hear tidings,     Though I die ere the dark: but for thee, O my fosterer, Lying there by my side, I had deemed the old vision Had drawn forth the soul from my body to see her. And with joy and fear blended leapt the heart in my bosom, And I cried, "The last land, love; O hast thou abided?"     But since then hath been turmoil, and sickness, and slumber, And my soul hath been troubled with dreams that I knew not. And such tangle is round me life fails me to rend it, And the cold cloud of death rolleth onward to hide me.—     —O well am I hidden, who might not be happy! I see not, I hear not, my head groweth heavy.

—O Son, is it sleep that upon thee is fallen? Not death, O my dear one!—speak yet but a little!

O be glad, foster-father! and those troubles past over,—     Be thou thereby when once more I remember And sit with my maiden and tell her the story, And we pity our past selves as a poet may pity The poor folk he tells of amid plentiful weeping. Hush now! as faint noise of bells over water A sweet sound floats towards me, and blesses my slumber:     If I wake never more I shall dream and shall see her.     [Sleeps.

Is it swooning or sleeping? in what wise shall he waken?     —Nay, no sound I hear save the forest wind wailing. Who shall help us to-day save our yoke-fellow Death? Yet fain would I die mid the sun and the flowers; For a tomb seems this yew-wood ere yet we are dead. And its wailing wind chilleth my yearning for time past, And my love groweth cold in this dusk of the daytime. What will be? is worse than death drawing anear us? Flit past, dreary day! come, night-tide and resting! Come, to-morrow's uprising with light and new tidings!     —Lo, Lord, I have borne all with no bright love before me; Wilt thou break all I had and then give me no blessing?

THE MUSIC

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