sign thereon, That is my sword wherewith my deeds are done. But how shall tongue of man tell all the tale Of faithful hearts who overcome or fail, But at the last fail nowise to be mine. In diverse ways they drink the fateful wine Those twain drank mid the lulling of the storm Upon the Irish Sea, when love grown warm Kindled and blazed, and lit the days to come, The hope and joy and death that led them home.     —In diverse ways; yet having drunk, be sure The flame thus lighted ever shall endure, So my feet trod the grapes whereby it glowed.

Lo, Faithful, lo, the door of my abode Wide open now, and many pressing in That they the lordship of the World may win! Hark to the murmuring round my bannered car, And gird your weapons to you for the war! For who shall say how soon the day shall be Of that last fight that swalloweth up the sea? Fear not, be ready! forth the banners go, And will not turn again till every foe Is overcome as though they had not been. Then, with your memories ever fresh and green, Come back within the House of Love to dwell; For ye—the sorrow that no words might tell, Your tears unheeded, and your prayers made nought Thus and no otherwise through all have wrought, That if, the while ye toiled and sorrowed most The sound of your lamenting seemed all lost, And from my land no answer came again, It was because of that your care and pain A house was building, and your bitter sighs Came hither as toil-helping melodies, And in the mortar of our gem-built wall Your tears were mingled mid the rise and fall Of golden trowels tinkling in the hands Of builders gathered wide from all the lands.—     —Is the house finished? Nay, come help to build Walls that the sun of sorrow once did gild Through many a bitter morn and hopeless eve, That so at last in bliss ye may believe; Then rest with me, and turn no more to tears, For then no more by days and months and years, By hours of pain come back, and joy passed o'er We measure time that was—and is no more.

The afternoon is waxen grey Now these fair shapes have passed away; And I, who should be merry now A-thinking of the glorious show, Feel somewhat sad, and wish it were To-morrow's mid-morn fresh and fair About the babble of our stead.

Content thee, sweet, for nowise dead Within our hearts the story is; It shall come back to better bliss On many an eve of happy spring, Or midst of summer's flourishing. Or think—some noon of autumn-tide     

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