The Project Gutenberg eBook ofA PreludeThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: A PreludeCreator: Francis ShermanRelease date: June 2, 2013 [eBook #39797]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A PRELUDE ***A PRELUDEFrancis ShermanPrivately Printedat Christmas1897A PreludeWatching the tremulous flicker of the greenAgainst the open quiet of the sky,I hear my ancient way-fellows conveneIn the great wood behind me. Where I lieThey may not see me; for the grasses growAs though no foot save June's had wandered by;Yet I, who am well-hidden, surely know,As I have waited them, they yearn for meTo lead them whither they are fain to go.Weary as I, are they, O Time, of thee!Yea, we, who once were glad only of Spring,Gather about thy wall and would be free!With wounded feet we cease from wandering,And with vain hands beat idly at thy gate;And thou,—thou hast no thought of opening,And from thy peace are we still separate.Yet, comrades, though ye come together there,And search across the shadows for my face,Until the pines murmur of your despair,I think I shall not tell my hiding-place,For ye know not the path ye would pursue,And it is late our footsteps to retrace.Too weak am I, and now not one of you—So weary are ye of each ancient way—Retaineth strength enough to seek a new;And ye are blind—knowing not night from day;Crying at noontime, "Let us see the sun!"And with the even, "O for rest, we pray!"O Blind and fearful! Shall I, who have wonAt last this little portion of content,Yield all to be with you again undone?Because ye languish in your prisonmentMust I now hearken to your bitter cry?Must I forego, as ye long since forewent,My vision of the far-off open sky?Nay! Earth hath much ungiven she yet may give;And though to-day your laboring souls would die,From earth my soul gaineth the strength to live.O covering grasses! O Unchanging trees!Is it not good to feel the odorous windCome down upon you with such harmoniesOnly the giant hills can ever find?O little leaves, are ye not glad to be?Is not the sunlight fair, the shadow kind,That falls at noon-time over you and me?O gleam of birches lost among the firs,Let your high treble chime in silverlyAcross the half-imagined wind that stirsA muffled organ-music from the pines!Earth knows to-day that not one note of hersIs minor. For, behold, the loud sun shinesTill the young maples are no longer gray,And stronger grow their faint, uncertain linesEach violet takes a deeper blue to-day,And purpler swell the cones hung overhead,Until the sound of their far feet whoAbout the wood, fades from me; and, instead,I hear a robin singing—not as oneThat calls unto his mate, uncomforted—But as one sings a welcome to the sun.Not among men, or near men-fashioned things,In the old years found I this present ease,Though I have known the fellowship of kingsAnd tarried long in splendid palaces.The worship of vast peoples has been mine,The homage of uncounted pageantries.Sea-offerings, and fruits of field and vineHave humble folk been proud to bring to me;And woven cloths of wonderful designHave lain untouched in far lands over-sea,Till the rich traffickers beheld my sails.Long caravans have toiled on wearily—Harassed yet watchful of their costly bales—Across wide sandy places, glad to bearStrange oils and perfumes strained in Indian vales,Great gleaming rubies torn from some queen's hair,Yellow, long-hoarded coin and golded dust,Deeming that I would find their offerings fair.—O fairness quick to fade! Ashes and rustAnd food for moths! O half-remembered thingsOnce altar-set!—I think when one is thrustFar down in the under-world, where the worm clingsClose to the newly-dead, among the deadNot one awakes to ask what gift she brings.The color of her eyes, her hair outspreadIn the moist wind that stifles ere it blows,Falls on unwatching eyes; and no man knowsThe gracious odors that her garments shed.And she, unwearied yet and not grown wise,Follows a little while her devious wayAcross the twilight; where no voice repliesWhen her voice calls, bravely; and where to-dayIs even as yesterday and all days were.Great houses loom up swiftly, out of the gray.Knocking at last, the gradual echoes stirThe hangings of unhaunted passages;Until she surely knows only for herHas this House hoarded up its silencesSince the beginning of the early years,And that this night her soul shall dwell at easeAnd grow forgetful of its ancient fearsIn some long-kept, unviolated room.And so the quiet city no more hearsHer footsteps, and the streets their dust resume.But what have I to do with her and deathWho hold these living grasses in my hands,—With her who liveth not, yet sorroweth?(For it shall chance, however close the bandsOf sleep be drawn about her, neverthelessShe must remember alway the old landsShe wandered in, and their old hollowness.)—Awaiting here the strong word of the trees,My soul leans over to the wind's caress,One with the flowers; far off, it hears the sea'sRumor of large, unmeasured things, and yetIt has no yearning to remix with these.For the pines whisper, lest it may forget,Of the near pool; and how the shadow liesOn it forever; and of its edges, setWith maiden-hair; and how, in guardian-wise,The alder trees bend over, until oneForgets the color of the unseen skiesAnd loses all remembrance of the sun.No echo there of the sea's loss and pain;Nor sound of little rivers, even, that runWhere with the wind the hollow reeds complain;Nor the soft stir of marsh-waters, when dawnComes in with quiet covering of rain:Only, all day, the shadow of peace uponThe pool's gray breast; and with the fall of even,The noiseless gleam of scattered stars—withdrawnFrom the unfathomed treasuries of heaven.And as the sea has not the strength to winBack to its love my soul, O Comrades, ye—In the wood lost, and seeking me therein—Are not less impotent than all the sea!My soul at last its ultimate house hath won,And in that house shall sleep along with me.Yea, we shall slumber softly, out of the sun,To day and night alike indifferent,Aware and unaware if Time be done.Yet ere I go, ere yet your faith be spent,For our old love I pass Earth's message on:"In me, why shouldst thou not find thy content?"Are not my days surpassing fair, from dawnTo sunset, and my nights fulfilled with peace?Shall not my strength remain when thou art gone"The way of all blown dust? Shall Beauty ceaseUpon my face because thy face grows gray?Behold, thine hours, even now, fade and decrease,"And thou hast got no wisdom; yet I sayThis thing there is to learn ere thou must go:Have no sad thoughts of me upon the way"Thou takest home coming; for thy soul shall knowThe old glad things and sorrowful its shareUntil at last Time's legions overthrowThe House thy days have builded unaware."Now therefore am I joyful who have heardEarth's message plain to-day, and so I cryAloud to you, O Comrades, her last word,That ye may be as wise and glad as I,And the long grasses, and the broad green leavesThat beat against the far, unclouded sky:Who worships me alway, who alway cleavesClose unto me till his last call rings clearAcross the pathless wood,—his soul receivesMy peace continually and shall not fear.A PRELUDE WRITTEN BY FRANCISSHERMAN IS PRIVATELY PRINTED FORHIM AND FOR HERBERT COPELANDAND F. H. DAY AND THEIR FRIENDSCHRISTMAS M D CCC XCVII*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKA PRELUDE***
The Project Gutenberg eBook ofA PreludeThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: A PreludeCreator: Francis ShermanRelease date: June 2, 2013 [eBook #39797]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A PRELUDE ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: A PreludeCreator: Francis ShermanRelease date: June 2, 2013 [eBook #39797]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines
Title: A Prelude
Creator: Francis Sherman
Creator: Francis Sherman
Release date: June 2, 2013 [eBook #39797]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A PRELUDE ***
A PRELUDEFrancis ShermanPrivately Printedat Christmas1897
A PRELUDE
Francis Sherman
Privately Printedat Christmas1897
A Prelude
Watching the tremulous flicker of the greenAgainst the open quiet of the sky,I hear my ancient way-fellows conveneIn the great wood behind me. Where I lieThey may not see me; for the grasses growAs though no foot save June's had wandered by;Yet I, who am well-hidden, surely know,As I have waited them, they yearn for meTo lead them whither they are fain to go.Weary as I, are they, O Time, of thee!Yea, we, who once were glad only of Spring,Gather about thy wall and would be free!With wounded feet we cease from wandering,And with vain hands beat idly at thy gate;And thou,—thou hast no thought of opening,And from thy peace are we still separate.
Watching the tremulous flicker of the greenAgainst the open quiet of the sky,I hear my ancient way-fellows convene
Watching the tremulous flicker of the green
Against the open quiet of the sky,
I hear my ancient way-fellows convene
In the great wood behind me. Where I lieThey may not see me; for the grasses growAs though no foot save June's had wandered by;
In the great wood behind me. Where I lie
They may not see me; for the grasses grow
As though no foot save June's had wandered by;
Yet I, who am well-hidden, surely know,As I have waited them, they yearn for meTo lead them whither they are fain to go.
Yet I, who am well-hidden, surely know,
As I have waited them, they yearn for me
To lead them whither they are fain to go.
Weary as I, are they, O Time, of thee!Yea, we, who once were glad only of Spring,Gather about thy wall and would be free!
Weary as I, are they, O Time, of thee!
Yea, we, who once were glad only of Spring,
Gather about thy wall and would be free!
With wounded feet we cease from wandering,And with vain hands beat idly at thy gate;And thou,—thou hast no thought of opening,And from thy peace are we still separate.
With wounded feet we cease from wandering,
And with vain hands beat idly at thy gate;
And thou,—thou hast no thought of opening,
And from thy peace are we still separate.
Yet, comrades, though ye come together there,And search across the shadows for my face,Until the pines murmur of your despair,I think I shall not tell my hiding-place,For ye know not the path ye would pursue,And it is late our footsteps to retrace.Too weak am I, and now not one of you—So weary are ye of each ancient way—Retaineth strength enough to seek a new;And ye are blind—knowing not night from day;Crying at noontime, "Let us see the sun!"And with the even, "O for rest, we pray!"O Blind and fearful! Shall I, who have wonAt last this little portion of content,Yield all to be with you again undone?Because ye languish in your prisonmentMust I now hearken to your bitter cry?Must I forego, as ye long since forewent,My vision of the far-off open sky?Nay! Earth hath much ungiven she yet may give;And though to-day your laboring souls would die,From earth my soul gaineth the strength to live.
Yet, comrades, though ye come together there,And search across the shadows for my face,Until the pines murmur of your despair,
Yet, comrades, though ye come together there,
And search across the shadows for my face,
Until the pines murmur of your despair,
I think I shall not tell my hiding-place,For ye know not the path ye would pursue,And it is late our footsteps to retrace.
I think I shall not tell my hiding-place,
For ye know not the path ye would pursue,
And it is late our footsteps to retrace.
Too weak am I, and now not one of you—So weary are ye of each ancient way—Retaineth strength enough to seek a new;
Too weak am I, and now not one of you—
So weary are ye of each ancient way—
Retaineth strength enough to seek a new;
And ye are blind—knowing not night from day;Crying at noontime, "Let us see the sun!"And with the even, "O for rest, we pray!"
And ye are blind—knowing not night from day;
Crying at noontime, "Let us see the sun!"
And with the even, "O for rest, we pray!"
O Blind and fearful! Shall I, who have wonAt last this little portion of content,Yield all to be with you again undone?
O Blind and fearful! Shall I, who have won
At last this little portion of content,
Yield all to be with you again undone?
Because ye languish in your prisonmentMust I now hearken to your bitter cry?Must I forego, as ye long since forewent,
Because ye languish in your prisonment
Must I now hearken to your bitter cry?
Must I forego, as ye long since forewent,
My vision of the far-off open sky?Nay! Earth hath much ungiven she yet may give;And though to-day your laboring souls would die,From earth my soul gaineth the strength to live.
My vision of the far-off open sky?
Nay! Earth hath much ungiven she yet may give;
And though to-day your laboring souls would die,
From earth my soul gaineth the strength to live.
O covering grasses! O Unchanging trees!Is it not good to feel the odorous windCome down upon you with such harmoniesOnly the giant hills can ever find?O little leaves, are ye not glad to be?Is not the sunlight fair, the shadow kind,That falls at noon-time over you and me?O gleam of birches lost among the firs,Let your high treble chime in silverlyAcross the half-imagined wind that stirsA muffled organ-music from the pines!Earth knows to-day that not one note of hersIs minor. For, behold, the loud sun shinesTill the young maples are no longer gray,And stronger grow their faint, uncertain linesEach violet takes a deeper blue to-day,And purpler swell the cones hung overhead,Until the sound of their far feet whoAbout the wood, fades from me; and, instead,I hear a robin singing—not as oneThat calls unto his mate, uncomforted—But as one sings a welcome to the sun.
O covering grasses! O Unchanging trees!Is it not good to feel the odorous windCome down upon you with such harmonies
O covering grasses! O Unchanging trees!
Is it not good to feel the odorous wind
Come down upon you with such harmonies
Only the giant hills can ever find?O little leaves, are ye not glad to be?Is not the sunlight fair, the shadow kind,
Only the giant hills can ever find?
O little leaves, are ye not glad to be?
Is not the sunlight fair, the shadow kind,
That falls at noon-time over you and me?O gleam of birches lost among the firs,Let your high treble chime in silverly
That falls at noon-time over you and me?
O gleam of birches lost among the firs,
Let your high treble chime in silverly
Across the half-imagined wind that stirsA muffled organ-music from the pines!Earth knows to-day that not one note of hers
Across the half-imagined wind that stirs
A muffled organ-music from the pines!
Earth knows to-day that not one note of hers
Is minor. For, behold, the loud sun shinesTill the young maples are no longer gray,And stronger grow their faint, uncertain lines
Is minor. For, behold, the loud sun shines
Till the young maples are no longer gray,
And stronger grow their faint, uncertain lines
Each violet takes a deeper blue to-day,And purpler swell the cones hung overhead,Until the sound of their far feet who
Each violet takes a deeper blue to-day,
And purpler swell the cones hung overhead,
Until the sound of their far feet who
About the wood, fades from me; and, instead,I hear a robin singing—not as oneThat calls unto his mate, uncomforted—But as one sings a welcome to the sun.
About the wood, fades from me; and, instead,
I hear a robin singing—not as one
That calls unto his mate, uncomforted—
But as one sings a welcome to the sun.
Not among men, or near men-fashioned things,In the old years found I this present ease,Though I have known the fellowship of kingsAnd tarried long in splendid palaces.The worship of vast peoples has been mine,The homage of uncounted pageantries.Sea-offerings, and fruits of field and vineHave humble folk been proud to bring to me;And woven cloths of wonderful designHave lain untouched in far lands over-sea,Till the rich traffickers beheld my sails.Long caravans have toiled on wearily—Harassed yet watchful of their costly bales—Across wide sandy places, glad to bearStrange oils and perfumes strained in Indian vales,Great gleaming rubies torn from some queen's hair,Yellow, long-hoarded coin and golded dust,Deeming that I would find their offerings fair.—O fairness quick to fade! Ashes and rustAnd food for moths! O half-remembered thingsOnce altar-set!—I think when one is thrustFar down in the under-world, where the worm clingsClose to the newly-dead, among the deadNot one awakes to ask what gift she brings.The color of her eyes, her hair outspreadIn the moist wind that stifles ere it blows,Falls on unwatching eyes; and no man knowsThe gracious odors that her garments shed.
Not among men, or near men-fashioned things,In the old years found I this present ease,Though I have known the fellowship of kings
Not among men, or near men-fashioned things,
In the old years found I this present ease,
Though I have known the fellowship of kings
And tarried long in splendid palaces.The worship of vast peoples has been mine,The homage of uncounted pageantries.
And tarried long in splendid palaces.
The worship of vast peoples has been mine,
The homage of uncounted pageantries.
Sea-offerings, and fruits of field and vineHave humble folk been proud to bring to me;And woven cloths of wonderful design
Sea-offerings, and fruits of field and vine
Have humble folk been proud to bring to me;
And woven cloths of wonderful design
Have lain untouched in far lands over-sea,Till the rich traffickers beheld my sails.Long caravans have toiled on wearily—
Have lain untouched in far lands over-sea,
Till the rich traffickers beheld my sails.
Long caravans have toiled on wearily—
Harassed yet watchful of their costly bales—Across wide sandy places, glad to bearStrange oils and perfumes strained in Indian vales,
Harassed yet watchful of their costly bales—
Across wide sandy places, glad to bear
Strange oils and perfumes strained in Indian vales,
Great gleaming rubies torn from some queen's hair,Yellow, long-hoarded coin and golded dust,Deeming that I would find their offerings fair.
Great gleaming rubies torn from some queen's hair,
Yellow, long-hoarded coin and golded dust,
Deeming that I would find their offerings fair.
—O fairness quick to fade! Ashes and rustAnd food for moths! O half-remembered thingsOnce altar-set!—I think when one is thrust
—O fairness quick to fade! Ashes and rust
And food for moths! O half-remembered things
Once altar-set!—I think when one is thrust
Far down in the under-world, where the worm clingsClose to the newly-dead, among the deadNot one awakes to ask what gift she brings.
Far down in the under-world, where the worm clings
Close to the newly-dead, among the dead
Not one awakes to ask what gift she brings.
The color of her eyes, her hair outspreadIn the moist wind that stifles ere it blows,Falls on unwatching eyes; and no man knowsThe gracious odors that her garments shed.
The color of her eyes, her hair outspread
In the moist wind that stifles ere it blows,
Falls on unwatching eyes; and no man knows
The gracious odors that her garments shed.
And she, unwearied yet and not grown wise,Follows a little while her devious wayAcross the twilight; where no voice repliesWhen her voice calls, bravely; and where to-dayIs even as yesterday and all days were.Great houses loom up swiftly, out of the gray.Knocking at last, the gradual echoes stirThe hangings of unhaunted passages;Until she surely knows only for herHas this House hoarded up its silencesSince the beginning of the early years,And that this night her soul shall dwell at easeAnd grow forgetful of its ancient fearsIn some long-kept, unviolated room.And so the quiet city no more hearsHer footsteps, and the streets their dust resume.
And she, unwearied yet and not grown wise,Follows a little while her devious wayAcross the twilight; where no voice replies
And she, unwearied yet and not grown wise,
Follows a little while her devious way
Across the twilight; where no voice replies
When her voice calls, bravely; and where to-dayIs even as yesterday and all days were.Great houses loom up swiftly, out of the gray.
When her voice calls, bravely; and where to-day
Is even as yesterday and all days were.
Great houses loom up swiftly, out of the gray.
Knocking at last, the gradual echoes stirThe hangings of unhaunted passages;Until she surely knows only for her
Knocking at last, the gradual echoes stir
The hangings of unhaunted passages;
Until she surely knows only for her
Has this House hoarded up its silencesSince the beginning of the early years,And that this night her soul shall dwell at ease
Has this House hoarded up its silences
Since the beginning of the early years,
And that this night her soul shall dwell at ease
And grow forgetful of its ancient fearsIn some long-kept, unviolated room.And so the quiet city no more hearsHer footsteps, and the streets their dust resume.
And grow forgetful of its ancient fears
In some long-kept, unviolated room.
And so the quiet city no more hears
Her footsteps, and the streets their dust resume.
But what have I to do with her and deathWho hold these living grasses in my hands,—With her who liveth not, yet sorroweth?(For it shall chance, however close the bandsOf sleep be drawn about her, neverthelessShe must remember alway the old landsShe wandered in, and their old hollowness.)—Awaiting here the strong word of the trees,My soul leans over to the wind's caress,One with the flowers; far off, it hears the sea'sRumor of large, unmeasured things, and yetIt has no yearning to remix with these.For the pines whisper, lest it may forget,Of the near pool; and how the shadow liesOn it forever; and of its edges, setWith maiden-hair; and how, in guardian-wise,The alder trees bend over, until oneForgets the color of the unseen skiesAnd loses all remembrance of the sun.No echo there of the sea's loss and pain;Nor sound of little rivers, even, that runWhere with the wind the hollow reeds complain;Nor the soft stir of marsh-waters, when dawnComes in with quiet covering of rain:Only, all day, the shadow of peace uponThe pool's gray breast; and with the fall of even,The noiseless gleam of scattered stars—withdrawnFrom the unfathomed treasuries of heaven.
But what have I to do with her and deathWho hold these living grasses in my hands,—With her who liveth not, yet sorroweth?
But what have I to do with her and death
Who hold these living grasses in my hands,—
With her who liveth not, yet sorroweth?
(For it shall chance, however close the bandsOf sleep be drawn about her, neverthelessShe must remember alway the old lands
(For it shall chance, however close the bands
Of sleep be drawn about her, nevertheless
She must remember alway the old lands
She wandered in, and their old hollowness.)—Awaiting here the strong word of the trees,My soul leans over to the wind's caress,
She wandered in, and their old hollowness.)
—Awaiting here the strong word of the trees,
My soul leans over to the wind's caress,
One with the flowers; far off, it hears the sea'sRumor of large, unmeasured things, and yetIt has no yearning to remix with these.
One with the flowers; far off, it hears the sea's
Rumor of large, unmeasured things, and yet
It has no yearning to remix with these.
For the pines whisper, lest it may forget,Of the near pool; and how the shadow liesOn it forever; and of its edges, set
For the pines whisper, lest it may forget,
Of the near pool; and how the shadow lies
On it forever; and of its edges, set
With maiden-hair; and how, in guardian-wise,The alder trees bend over, until oneForgets the color of the unseen skies
With maiden-hair; and how, in guardian-wise,
The alder trees bend over, until one
Forgets the color of the unseen skies
And loses all remembrance of the sun.No echo there of the sea's loss and pain;Nor sound of little rivers, even, that run
And loses all remembrance of the sun.
No echo there of the sea's loss and pain;
Nor sound of little rivers, even, that run
Where with the wind the hollow reeds complain;Nor the soft stir of marsh-waters, when dawnComes in with quiet covering of rain:
Where with the wind the hollow reeds complain;
Nor the soft stir of marsh-waters, when dawn
Comes in with quiet covering of rain:
Only, all day, the shadow of peace uponThe pool's gray breast; and with the fall of even,The noiseless gleam of scattered stars—withdrawnFrom the unfathomed treasuries of heaven.
Only, all day, the shadow of peace upon
The pool's gray breast; and with the fall of even,
The noiseless gleam of scattered stars—withdrawn
From the unfathomed treasuries of heaven.
And as the sea has not the strength to winBack to its love my soul, O Comrades, ye—In the wood lost, and seeking me therein—Are not less impotent than all the sea!My soul at last its ultimate house hath won,And in that house shall sleep along with me.Yea, we shall slumber softly, out of the sun,To day and night alike indifferent,Aware and unaware if Time be done.Yet ere I go, ere yet your faith be spent,For our old love I pass Earth's message on:"In me, why shouldst thou not find thy content?"Are not my days surpassing fair, from dawnTo sunset, and my nights fulfilled with peace?Shall not my strength remain when thou art gone"The way of all blown dust? Shall Beauty ceaseUpon my face because thy face grows gray?Behold, thine hours, even now, fade and decrease,"And thou hast got no wisdom; yet I sayThis thing there is to learn ere thou must go:Have no sad thoughts of me upon the way"Thou takest home coming; for thy soul shall knowThe old glad things and sorrowful its shareUntil at last Time's legions overthrowThe House thy days have builded unaware."
And as the sea has not the strength to winBack to its love my soul, O Comrades, ye—In the wood lost, and seeking me therein—
And as the sea has not the strength to win
Back to its love my soul, O Comrades, ye—
In the wood lost, and seeking me therein—
Are not less impotent than all the sea!My soul at last its ultimate house hath won,And in that house shall sleep along with me.
Are not less impotent than all the sea!
My soul at last its ultimate house hath won,
And in that house shall sleep along with me.
Yea, we shall slumber softly, out of the sun,To day and night alike indifferent,Aware and unaware if Time be done.
Yea, we shall slumber softly, out of the sun,
To day and night alike indifferent,
Aware and unaware if Time be done.
Yet ere I go, ere yet your faith be spent,For our old love I pass Earth's message on:"In me, why shouldst thou not find thy content?
Yet ere I go, ere yet your faith be spent,
For our old love I pass Earth's message on:
"In me, why shouldst thou not find thy content?
"Are not my days surpassing fair, from dawnTo sunset, and my nights fulfilled with peace?Shall not my strength remain when thou art gone
"Are not my days surpassing fair, from dawn
To sunset, and my nights fulfilled with peace?
Shall not my strength remain when thou art gone
"The way of all blown dust? Shall Beauty ceaseUpon my face because thy face grows gray?Behold, thine hours, even now, fade and decrease,
"The way of all blown dust? Shall Beauty cease
Upon my face because thy face grows gray?
Behold, thine hours, even now, fade and decrease,
"And thou hast got no wisdom; yet I sayThis thing there is to learn ere thou must go:Have no sad thoughts of me upon the way
"And thou hast got no wisdom; yet I say
This thing there is to learn ere thou must go:
Have no sad thoughts of me upon the way
"Thou takest home coming; for thy soul shall knowThe old glad things and sorrowful its shareUntil at last Time's legions overthrowThe House thy days have builded unaware."
"Thou takest home coming; for thy soul shall know
The old glad things and sorrowful its share
Until at last Time's legions overthrow
The House thy days have builded unaware."
Now therefore am I joyful who have heardEarth's message plain to-day, and so I cryAloud to you, O Comrades, her last word,That ye may be as wise and glad as I,And the long grasses, and the broad green leavesThat beat against the far, unclouded sky:Who worships me alway, who alway cleavesClose unto me till his last call rings clearAcross the pathless wood,—his soul receivesMy peace continually and shall not fear.
Now therefore am I joyful who have heardEarth's message plain to-day, and so I cryAloud to you, O Comrades, her last word,
Now therefore am I joyful who have heard
Earth's message plain to-day, and so I cry
Aloud to you, O Comrades, her last word,
That ye may be as wise and glad as I,And the long grasses, and the broad green leavesThat beat against the far, unclouded sky:
That ye may be as wise and glad as I,
And the long grasses, and the broad green leaves
That beat against the far, unclouded sky:
Who worships me alway, who alway cleavesClose unto me till his last call rings clearAcross the pathless wood,—his soul receivesMy peace continually and shall not fear.
Who worships me alway, who alway cleaves
Close unto me till his last call rings clear
Across the pathless wood,—his soul receives
My peace continually and shall not fear.
A PRELUDE WRITTEN BY FRANCISSHERMAN IS PRIVATELY PRINTED FORHIM AND FOR HERBERT COPELANDAND F. H. DAY AND THEIR FRIENDSCHRISTMAS M D CCC XCVII
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKA PRELUDE***