The storms that scream,

 The planets that float and swing

 Like buoys on the tide,

 The north-going legions in spring,

 The hills that abide,

 The frigate-bird clouds that range,

 The vagabond moon—

 That wilful lover of change—

 And the workaday sun,

 Dying summer and fall,

 Seasons and men

63

 And herds, he has them all

 In his shadowy ken.

 He calls and they come, leaving strife,

 Leaving discord and death,

 Out of oblivion to life,

 Though its span be a breath.

 There they are, all the beautiful things

 I loved and lost sight of

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