For the thing unsaid that heart asked of me Be a dark, cool water calling--calling To the footsore, benighted, solitary, When the shadows are falling. O, be beauty for all my blindness, A moon in the air where the weary wend, And dews burdened with loving-kindness In the dark of the end. THE SCRIBE What lovely things Thy hand hath made: The smooth-plumed bird In its emerald shade, The seed of the grass, The speck of stone Which the wayfaring ant Stirs--and hastes on! Though I should sit By some tarn in thy hills, Using its ink As the spirit wills To write of Earth's wonders, Its live, willed things, Flit would the ages On soundless wings. Ere unto Z My pen drew nigh; Leviathan told, And the honey-fly: And still would remain My wit to try My worn reeds broken, The dark tarn dry, All words forgotten-- Thou, Lord, and I. FARE WELL When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes, Nor the rain make lamentation When the wind sighs; How will fare the world whose wonder Was the very proof of me? Memory fades, must the remembered Perishing be? Oh, when this my dust surrenders Hand, foot, lip, to dust again, May these loved and loving faces Please other men! May the rustling harvest hedgerow Still the Traveller's Joy entwine, And as happy children gather Posies once mine. Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour. Let no night Seal thy sense in deathly slumber Till to delight Thou have paid thy utmost blessing; Since that all things thou wouldst praise Beauty took from those who loved them In other days. * * * * * End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Collected Poems 1901-1918 in Two Volumes, by Walter de la Mare