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The souls that ye witch with a harvest call?—

If the dreams must die when the dreamer perish?—

If it be idle to dream at all?

The waves of the world roll hither and thither,

The tumult deepens, the days go by,

The dead men vanish—we know not whither,

The live men anguish—we know not why;

The cry of the stricken is smothered never,

The Shadow passes from street to street;

And—o’er us fadeth, for ever and ever,

The still white gleam of thy constant feet.

The hard men struggle, the students ponder,

The world rolls round on its westward way;

The gleam of the beautiful night up yonder

Is dim on the dreamer’s cheek all day;

The old earth’s voice is a sound of weeping,

Round her the waters wash wild and vast,

There is no calm, there is little sleeping,—

Yet nightly, brightly, thou glimmerest past!

Another summer, new dreams departed,

And yet we are lingering, thou and I;

I on the earth, with my hope proud-hearted,

Thou, in the void of a violet sky!

Thou art there! I am here! and the reaping and mowing