These move my soul to wend its way, And have done
With all we grasp and toil amongst and say.
The paling roses of a cloud,
The fading bow that arches space,
These woo my fancy toward my shroud,
Toward the place
Of faces veil’d, and heads discrown’d and bow’d.
The nation of the awful stars,
The wandering star whose blaze is brief,
Of my grief;
My tedious grief, twin to the life it mars.
O fretted heart toss’d to and fro,
East or west,
Grow dim to thee who art so fain to go.
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