Keen and far as the final star on souls that seek not for charms or signs;

Yet more bright is the love-shown light of men's hands lighted in songs or shrines.

Love and trust that the grave's deep dust can soil not, neither may fear put out,

Witness yet that their record set stands fast, though years be as hosts in rout,

Spent and slain; but the signs remain that beat back darkness and cast forth doubt.

[Pg 144]

Men that wrought by the grace of thought and toil things goodlier than praise dare trace,

Fair as all that the world may call most fair, save only the sea's own face,

Shrines or songs that the world's change wrongs not, live by grace of their own gift's grace.

Dead, their names that the night reclaims—alive, their works that the day relumes—

Sink and stand, as in stone and sand engraven: none may behold their tombs:

Nights and days shall record their praise while here this flower of their grafting blooms.

Flower more fair than the sun-thrilled air bids laugh and lighten and wax and rise,

Fruit more bright than the fervent light sustains with strength from the kindled skies,

Flower and fruit that the deathless root of man's love rears though the man's name dies.

Stately stands it, the work of hands unknown of: statelier, afar and near,

Rise around it the heights that bound our landward gaze from the seaboard here;

Downs that swerve and aspire, in curve and change of heights that the dawn holds dear.

Dawn falls fair on the grey walls there confronting dawn, on the low green lea,

Lone and sweet as for fairies' feet held sacred, silent and strange and free,

 Prev. P 28/162 next