Ah, these fair woods the spirit crosses, These quiet lakes, these stretched dreaming fields, These undulate downs with piny bosses Pointing the ridges of their sloping shields. These valleys and these heights that screen them, These tawnier sands where grass and tree are not, Ah, we have known them, we have seen them Long, long ago or ever we forgot; We know them all, these placid countries, And what the pathway is and what the goal; These are the gates and these the sentries That guard the ancient fortress of the soul. And onward speed we flying, flying, Over the sundering worlds of hill and plain To where they rear their heads undying The unnamed mountains of old days again. The snows upon their calm still summits, The chasms, the lines of trees that foot the snow, Curving like inky frozen comets, Into the forest-ocean spread below. The glisten where the peaks are hoarest, The soundless darkness of the sunken vales, The folding leagues of shadowy forest, Wave beyond wave till all distinctness fails. So invulnerable it is, so deathless, So floods the air the loveliness of it, That we stay dazzled, rapt and breathless, Our beings ebbing to the infinite. There as we pause, there as we hover, Moveless in ecstasy, a sudden light Breaks in our eyes, and we discover We sit at windows gazing to the night. Wistful and tired, with eyes a-tingle Where still the sting of Beauty faintly smarts, But with our mute regrets there mingle Thanks for the resurrection of our hearts. O night so great that will not mock us! O stars so wise that understand the weak! O vast consoling hands that rock us! O strong and perfect tongues that speak! O night enrobed in azure splendour! O whispering stars whose radiance falls like dew! O mighty presences and tender, You have given us back the dreams our childhood knew! Lulled by your visions without number, We seek our beds content and void of pain, And dreaming drowse and dreaming slumber And dreaming wake to see the day again. A MEMORIAL (F.T.) The cord broke, and the tent Slipped, and the silken roof Lay prone beneath the viewless hoof Of the deliberate firmament. Yet cared we not; how should we care? Knowing that labourless now he breathes A golden paradisal air Where with more certain craft he wreathes Bright braids of words more wise and fair Than ever his earthly fabrics were, That his unwavering eyes made fresh, Purged and regarbed in fadeless flesh, What he then darkly guessed behold, And watch with an abiding joy The eternal mysteries unfold Which do his now transfigured songs evermore employ.