The shadow steals through its arc,

 Still as a frosted breath,

20

 Fitful, gleaming, and dark

 As the cold frustration of death.

 But where the shadow may fall,

 Whether to hurry or stay,

 It matters little at all

 To those who come that way.

 For this is the dial of them

 That have forgotten the world,

 No more through the mad day-dream

 Of striving and reason hurled.

 Their heart as a little child

 Only remembers the worth

 Of beauty and love and the wild

 Dark peace of the elder earth.

 It registers the morrows

 Of lovers and winds and streams,

 And the face of a thousand sorrows

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