Blown by keen gusts of memory sad as thine

Heap the weight up of pain, and break, and leave

Strength scarce enough to grieve

In the sick heavy spirit, unmanned with strife

Of waves that beat at the tired lips of life.

Nay, sad may be man's memory, sad may be

The dream he weaves him as for shadow of thee,

But scarce one breathing-space, one heartbeat long,

Wilt thou take shadow of sadness on thy song.

Not thou, being more than man or man's desire,

Being bird and God in one,

With throat of gold and spirit of the sun;

The sun whom all our souls and songs call sire,

Whose godhead gave thee, chosen of all our quire,

Thee only of all that serve, of all that sing

Before our sire and king,

Borne up some space on time's world-wandering wing,

This gift, this doom, to bear till time's wing tire—

Life everlasting of eternal fire.

Thee only of all; yet can no memory say

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