All my stars forsake me. And the dawn-winds shake me, Where shall I betake me?
Whither shall I run Till the set of sun, Till the day be done?
To the mountain-mine, To the boughs o' the pine, To the blind man's eyne,
To a brow that is Bowed upon the knees, Sick with memories?
Listen, and when thy hand this paper presses, O time-worn woman, think of her who blesses What thy thin fingers touch, with her caresses.
O mother, for the weight of years that break thee! O daughter, for slow time must yet awake thee. And from the changes of my heart must make thee!
O fainting traveller, morn is grey in heaven. Dost thou remember how the clouds were driven? And are they calm about the fall of even?
Pause near the ending of thy long migration, For this one sudden hour of desolation Appeals to one hour of thy meditation.
Suffer, O silent one, that I remind thee Of the great hills that stormed the sky behind thee, Of the wild winds of power that have resigned thee.
Know that the mournful plain where thou must wander Is but a grey and silent world, but ponder The misty mountains of the morning yonder.
Listen:--the mountain winds with rain were fretting, And sudden gleams the mountain-tops besetting. I cannot let thee fade to death, forgetting.
What part of this wild heart of mine I know not Will follow with thee where the great winds blow not, And where the young flowers of the mountain grow not.
Yet let my letter with thy lost thoughts in it Tell what the way was when thou didst begin it, And win with thee the goal when thou shalt win it.
Oh, in some hour of thine thy thoughts shall guide thee. Suddenly, though time, darkness, silence, hide thee, This wind from thy lost country flits beside thee,--
Telling thee: all thy memories moved the maiden, With thy regrets was morning over-shaden, With sorrow, thou hast left, her life was laden.
But whither shall my thoughts turn to pursue thee? Life changes, and the years and days renew thee. Oh, Nature brings my straying heart unto thee.
Her winds will join us, with their constant kisses Upon the evening as the morning tresses, Her summers breathe the same unchanging blisses.
And we, so altered in our shifting phases, Track one another 'mid the many mazes By the eternal child-breath of the daisies.