The two stand still,--stand face to face. The moon slides on; the midnight air Is perfumed as a house of prayer-- The maiden keeps her holy place. Two men! And one is gray, but one Scarce lifts a full-grown face as yet: With light foot on life's threshold set,-- Is he the other's sun-born son? And one is of the land of snow, And one is of the land of sun; A black-eyed burning youth is one, But one has pulses cold and slow: Ay, cold and slow from clime of snow Where Nature's bosom, icy bound, Holds all her forces, hard, profound,-- Holds close where all the South lets go. Blame not the sun, blame not the snows; God's great schoolhouse for all is clime, The great school-teacher, Father Time; And each has borne as best he knows. At last the elder speaks,--he cries,-- He speaks as if his heart would break; He speaks out as a man that dies,-- As dying for some lost love's sake: "Come, take this bag of gold, and go! Come, take one bag! See, I have two! Oh, why stand silent, staring so, When I would share my gold with you? "Come, take this gold! See how I pray! See how I bribe, and beg, and buy,-- Ay, buy! buy love, as you, too, may Some day before you come to die. "God! take this gold, I beg, I pray! I beg as one who thirsting cries For but one drop of drink, and dies In some lone, loveless desert way. "You hesitate? Still hesitate? Stand silent still and mock my pain? Still mock to see me wait and wait, And wait her love, as earth waits rain?" V. O broken ship! O starless shore! O black and everlasting night, Where love comes never any more To light man's way with heaven's light. A godless man with bags of gold I think a most unholy sight; Ah, who so desolate at night Amid death's sleepers still and cold? A godless man on holy ground I think a most unholy sight. I hear death trailing like a hound Hard after him, and swift to bite. VI. The vast moon settles to the west: Two men beside a nameless tomb, And one would sit thereon to rest,-- Ay, rest below, if there were room. What is this rest of death, sweet friend? What is the rising up,--and where? I say, death is a lengthened prayer, A longer night, a larger end. Hear you the lesson I once learned: I died; I sailed a million miles Through dreamful, flowery, restful isles,-- She was not there, and I returned. I say the shores of death and sleep Are one; that when we, wearied, come To Lethe's waters, and lie dumb, 'Tis death, not sleep, holds us to keep. Yea, we lie dead for need of rest And so the soul drifts out and o'er The vast still waters to the shore Beyond, in pleasant, tranquil quest: It sails straight on, forgetting pain, Past isles of peace, to perfect rest,-- Now were it best abide, or best Return and take up life again?