But now ye are bidding _your_ God god-speed With his lore upon dusty shelves; So wise ye are grown, ye have found no need For any god but yourselves.
Ye have learnt the riddle of seas and sand, Of leaves in the spring uncurled; There is no room left for my wonderland In the whole of the great wide world.
And what have ye left for a song to say? What now is a singer's fame? He may startle the ear with a word one day, And die,--and live in a name.
But the world has heed unto no fair thing, Men pass on their soulless ways, They give no faith unto those who sing, --Give hardly a heartless praise.
But you say, Let us go unto all wide lands, Let us speak to the people's heart! Let us make good use of our lips and hands, There is hope for the world in art!
Will the dull ears hear, will the dead souls see? Will they know what we hardly know? The chords of the wonderful harmony Of the earth and the skies?--if so--
We have talked too long till it all seems vain, The desire and the hopes that fired, The triumphs won and the needless pain, And the heart that has hoped is tired.
Do you see down there where the high cliffs shrink, And the ripples break on the bay, Our old sea boat at the white foam brink With the sail slackened down half-way?
Shall we get hence? O fair heart's brother! You are weary at heart with me, We two alone in the world, no other: Shall we go to our wide kind sea?
Shall we glide away in this white moon's track? Does it not seem fair in your eyes! --To drift and drift with our white sail black In the dreamful light of the skies,
Till the pale stars die, and some far fair shore Comes up through the morning haze, And wandering hearts shall not wander more Far off from the mad world's ways.
Or still more fair--when the dim scared night Grows pale from the east to the west-- If the waters gather us home, and the light Break through on the waves' unrest,
And there in the gleam of the gold-washed sea, Which the smile of the morning brings, Our souls shall fathom the mystery, And the riddle of all these things.
This was the first shrine lit for Queen Marie; And I will sit a little at her feet, For winds without howl down the narrow street And storm-clouds gather from the westward sea.