Once in the twilight of the Austrian hills, A word came to me, wonderful and good; If I had spoken it--that message of the stars-- Love would have filled thy blood; Love would have sent thee pulsing to my arms, Laughing with joy, thy heart a nestling bird An instant passed--it fled; and now I seek in vain For that forgotten word.
What will this matter, dear, when you and I Have left our sad world for some fairer sky? What will it matter, dear, when, far apart, We miss the touch of hand and beat of heart; When one’s at peace, while unto one is given With lonely feet to walk the hills at even? What will it matter that one fault more now Brings clouds upon one eager mortal brow, That one grace less is given to one poor soul, When both drink from the last immortal bowl? For fault and grace, dear love, when we go hence Will find the same Eternal recompense.
Into a New World wandered I, A strong vast realm afar; And down the white peaks of its sky, Beckoned my courier star.
It hailed me to mine ancient North,-- The meadows of the Pole; It whistled my gay hunters forth, It bugled in my soul. On plateaux of the constant snow I heard the meteors whir; I saw the red wolves nor’ward go From my low huts of fir.
The dun moose ran the deep ravine, The musk-ox ranged the plain; The hunter’s song dripped in between In notes of scarlet rain.
The land was mine: its lonely pride, Its distant deep desires; And I abode, as hunters bide, With joy beside its fires.
Into a New World wandered I, A world austere, sublime; And unseen feet came sauntering by; A voice with ardent chime Rang down the idle lanes of sleep; I waked: the night was still; I saw my star its sentry keep Along a southern hill.
O flaming star! my courier star! My herald, fine and tall! You gestured from your opal car, I answered to that call. I rose; the flumes of snow I trod, I trailed to southward then; I left behind the camps of God, And sought the tents of men.
And where a princely face looked through The curtains of the play Of life, O star, you paused; I knew The comrade of my day. And good the trails that I have trod, My courier star before; And good the nor’land camps of God: And though I lodge no more
Where stalwart deeds and dreams rejoice, And gallant hunters roam, Where I can hear your voice, your voice, I drive the tent-peg home.