And one, that one, was wild as seas That wash the far dark Oregon, And ever leaning, urging on, And standing up in restless ease, He seem'd as lithe and free and tall And restless as the boughs that stir Perpetual topt poplar trees. And one, that one, had eyes to teach The art of love, and tongue to preach Life's hard and sober homilies; And yet his eager hands, his speech, All spoke the bold adventurer; While zoned about the belt of each There swung a girt of steel, till all Did seem a walking arsenal. IV. Pursuer and pursued. And who Are these that make the sable crew; These mighty Titans, black and nude, And hairy-breasted, bronzed and broad Of chest as any demi-god, That dare this peopled solitude? And who is he that leads them here, And breaks the hush of wave and wood? Comes he for evil or for good? Brave Jesuit or bold buccaneer? Nay, these be idle themes. Let pass. These be but men. We may forget The wild sea-king, the tawny brave, The frowning wold, the woody shore, The tall-built, sunburnt men of Mars.... But what and who was she, the fair? The fairest face that ever yet Look'd in a wave as in a glass; That look'd as look the still, far stars, So woman-like, into the wave To contemplate their beauty there, Yet look as looking anywhere? And who of all the world was she? A bride, or not a bride? A thing To love? A prison'd bird to sing? You shall not know. That shall not be Brought from the future's great profound This side the happy hunting-ground. I only saw her, heard the sound Of murky waters gurgling round In counter-currents from the shore, But heard the long, strong stroke of oar Against the waters gray and vast. I only saw her as she pass'd-- A great, sad beauty, in whose eyes Lay all the loves of Paradise.... You shall not know her--she who sat Unconscious in my heart all time I dreamed and wove this wayward rhyme, And loved and did not blush thereat. The sunlight of a sunlit land, A land of fruit, of flowers, and A land of love and calm delight; A land where night is not like night, And noon is but a name for rest, And love for love is reckoned best. Where conversations of the eyes Are all enough; where beauty thrills The heart like hues of harvest-home; Where rage lies down, where passion dies, Where peace hath her abiding place.... A face that lifted up; sweet face That was so like a life begun, That rose for me a rising sun Above the bended seven hills Of dead and risen old new Rome.