how long! Thou fool, why dare Ere winter come, this world of wrong? This world—a gate To myriad deserts dumb and hoar! Who lost through fate What thou hast lost, shall rest no more. Now stand'st thou pale, A frozen pilgrimage thy doom, Like smoke whose trail Cold and still colder skies consume. Fly, bird, and screech, Like desert-fowl, thy song apart! Hide out of reach, Fool! in grim ice thy bleeding heart. Firmly let us plant our feet, Ne'er can we give up this game— From the distance what doth greet? One death, one happiness, one fame. The cawing crows Townwards on
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EDITORIAL NOTE TO POETRY
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