Unrestingly, unhastingly, march on with no delay,

I.

I HAVE forgotten my name and the name of my nation . . . yea, I know alone I have lost myself, and have wandered far astray From the land where the magical fir-trees grow, farther than far Cathay, Farther than fair Atlantis or the hills of Tir-fa-tonn, Or the isles of Bran and Mailduin, or the isle of Avalon; From the city built on the rivers, where the willow-branches sway To a quiet tune all night to the moon, and dream in the sun all day, Where the gardens drink at the water's brink and the poppies dip to the water wan, And the roses fall from the hot red wall like showers of light on the water grey.

Now and again by night, when the sun's last ray Has crawled under the sky-line, and I hear the waves' array March clip-clap after me, driving me up the bay That is ringed with cliffs and foam-girt, and the bats wheel out anon, Sometimes I half remember . . . and again the word is gone; And I know that I am lonely, and the night and the sea and the spray,

And the sheer height of the cliffs' white sands like the base of the great white throne, And I seem to be left with God, bereft of any wisdom to plead or pray.

II.

Some one has leased me a house that is huge and dark and old
And filled with other men's dust;
I do not remember bargaining, but I pay the price in gold,
Year after year . . . a heavy price . . . and pay it because I must.
Its rafters are full of mould
And its bars, of rust;
The slates fly from the roof at every gust
Of the wind over the wold.

I should like to search my house, if only I were bold,
And scrape the mildew-crust
From cobweb-curtained corners that are quaintly-shaped and cold
And heaped with curious hangings; yet I have but little lust
To find what may not be told
Or ever discussed
Hid in a closet, maybe, or carefully thrust
Into a curtain's fold.