tT I STAND ON EARTH t!T 



The young have grown old, and the old have 



not gain'd 



Save in sense of illusion and measureless loss; 

 As the weary wayfarer goes dragging his cross 

 O'er the stones of the road to the hills out of 



reach, 



Where storms utter faintly their ominous speech ; 

 'Mid the ghosts of the maidens, ah, vain let him 



roam, 

 And remember at last how he stray'd from his 



home! 



Deep frost in the garden, the maidens are dead, 

 The King is a-cold with the snows on his head ; 

 Through the rime on the windows forth-looking 



sees he 

 The dearth and the dark where the glory should 



be. 



Where now are the stars and the altitude keen, 

 All the music of old in the shining demesne, 

 The fellowship lofty reserved to adorn 

 That secret pageant and state inborn? 

 The heart cannot dream it though hearts may 



yearn, 



Nor the way of attainment the eye discern, 

 But the King in the garden, of all bereft, 



[205] 



