"It may be--who shall tell, when I go back There whence I came, and looking down behold The place that my once eager heart shall lack, And all my dead desires a-lying cold, But I may have the might then to enfold The hopes of brave men in my heart?--but long Life lies before first with its change and wrong." So fair along the watery ways they sped In happy wise, nor failed of their return; Nor failed in ancient Tyre the ways to tread, Teaching their tale to whomsoever would learn, Nor failed at last the flesh of beasts to burn In Nereus' house, turned toward the bright day's end On the last ness, round which the wild goats wend. L'ENVOI. Here are we for the last time face to face, Thou and I, Book, before I bid thee speed Upon thy perilous journey to that place For which I have done on thee pilgrim's weed, Striving to get thee all things for thy need-- --I love thee, whatso time or men may say Of the poor singer of an empty day. Good reason why I love thee, e'en if thou Be mocked or clean forgot as time wears on; For ever as thy fashioning did grow, Kind word and praise because of thee I won From those without whom were my world all gone, My hope fallen dead, my singing cast away, And I set soothly in an empty day. I love thee; yet this last time must it be, That thou must hold thy peace and I must speak, Lest if thou babble I begin to see Thy gear too thin, thy limbs and heart too weak, To find the land thou goest forth to seek-- --Though what harm if thou die upon the way, Thou idle singer of an empty day? But though this land desired thou never reach, Yet folk who know it mayst thou meet or death; Therefore a word unto thee would I teach To answer these, who, noting thy weak breath, Thy wandering eyes, thy heart of little faith, May make thy fond desire a sport and play, Mocking the singer of an empty day. That land's name, say'st thou? and the road thereto? Nay, Book, thou mockest, saying thou know'st it not; Surely no book of verse I ever knew But ever was the heart within him hot To gain the Land of Matters Unforgot-- --There, now we both laugh--as the whole world may, At us poor singers of an empty day. Nay, let it pass, and hearken! Hast thou heard That therein I believe I have a friend, Of whom for love I may not be afeard? It is to him indeed I bid thee wend; Yea, he perchance may meet thee ere thou end, Dying so far off from the hedge of bay, Thou idle singer of an empty day! Well, think of him, I bid thee, on the road, And if it hap that midst of thy defeat, Fainting beneath thy follies' heavy load, My Master, Geoffrey Chaucer, thou do meet, Then shalt thou win a space of rest full sweet; Then be thou bold, and speak the words I say, The idle singer of an empty day!