The Song of the Pilgrims
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Halted around the fire by night, after moon-set,they sing this beneath the trees.) Wuat light of unremembered skiesHast thou relumed within our eyes,Thou whom we seek, whom we shall find?...A certain odour on the wind,Thy hidden face beyond the west,These things have called us; on a questOlder than any road we trod,More endless than desire... . ¢i Far God,Sigh with thy cruel voice, that fillsThe soul with longing for dim hillsAnd faint horizons! For there comeGrey moments of the antient dumbSickness of travel, when no songCan cheer us; but the way seems long;And one remembers. .Ah! the beatOf weary unreturning feet,And songs of pilgrims unreturning! .. . we The fires we left are always burningOn the old shrines of home. Our kinHave built them temples, and thereinPray to the Gods we know; and dwellIn little houses lovable,Being happy (we remember how!)And peaceful even to death. .. . O Thou,God of all long desirous roaming,Our hearts are sick of fruitless homing,And crying after lost desire.Hearten us onward! as with fireConsuming dreams of other bliss.The best Thou givest, giving thisSufficient thing—to travel stillOver the plain, beyond the hill,Unhesitating through the shade,Amid the silence unafraid,Tili, at some sudden turn, one seesAgainst the black and muttering treesThine altar, wonderfully white,Among the Forests of the Night. 36
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