POEMS
Winning so much, so much as yet unwon,
Yet to be dared, to discover, to reveal.
Quick still with ardour, hand still at the wheel
On wide and unsailed seas, eyes turning still
Towards the morning, while the keen brain burned
To the imperative will.
Yet to be dared, to discover, to reveal.
Quick still with ardour, hand still at the wheel
On wide and unsailed seas, eyes turning still
Towards the morning, while the keen brain burned
To the imperative will.
Upon your summer Death seems to set his heel,
Writes on the page "No more,"
And brings the sign of sunset, shuts the door
And the house is dark and the tired mourners sleep.
Yet says he too, "Though quiet at last you lie,
"And have done with laughter and strife and joy and care,
"You have honour with your peace; and still you keep
"Fullness of life and of felicity.
"You have seen the Grail. What need you of grey hair?
"There are those who daily die,
"Who have long out lived their welcome in the world,
"Who are old and sad and tired and fain to cease
"From the crowded earth, and the hours in tumult whirled,
"Urgent and vain. You are not such as these
Writes on the page "No more,"
And brings the sign of sunset, shuts the door
And the house is dark and the tired mourners sleep.
Yet says he too, "Though quiet at last you lie,
"And have done with laughter and strife and joy and care,
"You have honour with your peace; and still you keep
"Fullness of life and of felicity.
"You have seen the Grail. What need you of grey hair?
"There are those who daily die,
"Who have long out lived their welcome in the world,
"Who are old and sad and tired and fain to cease
"From the crowded earth, and the hours in tumult whirled,
"Urgent and vain. You are not such as these
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