62
William Stanley Braithwaite
He did not know the way to go,
Because he had no map:
He followed where the winds blow,—
And the April sap.
He never knew upon his brow
The secret that he bore,—
And laughs away the mystery now
The dark's at his door.
V
Onus Probandi
No more from out the sunset,
No more across the foam,
No more across the windy hills
Will Sandy Star come home.
He went away to search it
With a curse upon his tongue:
And in his hand the staff of life,
Made music as it swung.
I wonder if he found it,
And knows the mystery now—
Our Sandy Star who went away,
With the secret on his brow.
