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Blessed the wild prophet, and then brought
Raiment and food unthanked, unsought.
I have a dreaming of the sea—
A dreaming of the land—
A dreaming that again to me
Belonged a good knight's brand—
A dreaming that this brow was pressed
With plumed helm once more,
That linked mail reclad this breast
When I retrod the shore,
The blessed shores of my father-land,
And knelt in prayer upon its strand.
"Years furrow brows and channel cheeks,
But should not chase old loves away;
The language which true heart first speaks,
That language must it hold for aye."
This poesie a war-worn man
Did mutter to himself one night,
As upwards to this cliff he ran,
That shone in the moonlight;
And by the moonlight curiously,
He scanned the bark of this old tree.
